

Bjoetiouooo*^; 


^^^^^^^^^^^^I/^ 


lllHIl 


i 






1 




Class 
BooL 



■? 



G®iiglitl^?- 



"/. ^ 



HQESRIGHT DEPOSm 



ODES AND LYRICS 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2011 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/odeslyricsOOalex 



ODES AND LYRICS 



By 



HARTLEY BURR ALEXANDER 




BOSTON 

MARSHALL JONES COMPANY 

MCMXXII 



•t 



Vat ?t * * ^ 

or iO i'^ 



Copyright, 1910, by 
THE BAKER & TAYLOR COMPANY 

Copyright, 1922, by 
HARTLEY BURR ALEXANDER 



MAR i 5 1922 



0)Cl.A6o9159 



NOTE 

The poems here collected fall into several nat- 
ural groups, or tempers, as is indicated by the 
arrangement of the volume. The Odes on the 
Generations of Man, forming the introductory 
group, vi^ere published in 1910 by the Baker & 
Taylor Company, but the edition has long been 
exhausted. They are here included through the 
courtesy of the original publishers. Here in- 
cluded also are several pieces which appeared in 
The Mid-Earth Life (1907), of which only a 
few copies were printed. A considerable number 
of the shorter pieces have been published in 
periodicals, and the author desires in particular 
to acknowledge indebtedness to The Midland, 
in the pages of which several of the poems first 
appeared. 



[v] 



CONTENTS 

I. ODES AND LYRICS 

Odes on the Generations of Man . . , . 3 

In Memoriam : I. R. A 44 

To One Whom Men Called Mad .... 53 

The Corn 55 

Pioneers! 68 

The Four Continents ....... 69 

Dies Irae 74 

To France in Her Anguish 82 

Ballade 83 

Chanson d'Automne 84 

Women of Euripides 85 

The Vengeance of Women 90 

The Witch o' Women ....... 94 

The Isle of the Blest 95 

The Huntsman 96 

Lone Winds that Blow 97 

The Twaining 98 

In Morte Vita 99 

All Hallows Eve 100 

Prairie Revery 101 

The Knowing Dead 102 

The Familiar Years 104 

The House of Pleasant Memories. . . .105 

The Mountains of the Lord 106 

Roads that Wander 107 

To Anna, on Her Birthday 108 

Horizons 110 

Pilgrim Chorus Ill 

[vii] 



II. FROM THE BOOK OF HER SONGS 

DoMiNA Illuminatrix Mea 115 

Matin 122 

Seven Songs 123 

The Bride Singeth 128 

Primavera . . . . 129 

Noon o' the Year . 130 

Autumnal 131 

For Delight „. . 132 

Thinking of Thee with Joy 133 

Four Songs 134 

Imago Lucis . 137 

An Aire Unto Strings . . . . . . .138 

Love's Chanty 139 

Memory 140 

What is a Sweetheart? 141 

Melody 142 

Her Garden 143 

The Flower of Love 145 

The Circlet of Remembrance . . . . . 147 

Her Coronal 148 

Enhallowed . 149 

Mother Song 150 

Alpha and Omega 151 

Vesper 156 

III. FOR REMEMBRANCE 

Annunciation 159 

Mayde Betty . 167 

Beata 168 

Talium est enim Regnum Dei . . . . . 173 

She Who Hath Blessed Me 175 

King Christmas 177 

Christmas Hymn . . 180 

[ viii ] 



ODES AND LYRICS 



ODES ON THE GENERATIONS OF MAN 



Earth ! 
'Twixt sky and sky wide spun, 
The blue sky of the sun, 
The black abyss 
Of night and silence blent 
Where to their slow extinguishment 
Fall fated stars and the still years miss 
All measurement: 

Earth ! 
Ancient of our days. 

Our life's great mother and of our mortal ways 
High matriarch. 
What destiny shall be 
Beyond thy bournes — or visionry 
Glad in phantasmic splendors or a stark 
And wakeless rest 
Sconced in thy stony breast, — 
What dooming makes or mars 
Beyond mortality, 
Is given us to see 
But as we read aright 

Writ in our mid-earth life the mighty geste 
Of Nature, but as we guess the plan 
That wrought the mind of man 
And gave him sight 
Potent to gauge the pathways of the stars! 

[3] 



II 

In strange tropic forests he awoke 

From the long bnite dream: 

In strange tropic forests that did teem 

With golden insects and bright-plumaged birds, 

With gliding serpents and the myriad herds 

Of eldritch things that crawl within the dusk: 

All odorous the air of myrrh and musk, 

And cloying honeys, camphors, fennels dense. 

Prickle and pungence mingling with incense 

Of opiate decay: 

While all the throbbing day 

The warm forestways did thrill 

With singing sound — with murmurous hum 

Of bees, and buzz and drone and drum 

Of slim metallic wings insatiate, 

Flutings of locusts and soft-throated trill 

Of slow reptilians calling mate to mate: 

Aloft, scarce quivered by the torpid breeze. 

Swung leafy banners, and mightily the trees 

Were girt with climbing seekers of the sun: 

Below, the speckling shadows spun 

Their lazy mesh, and drowsily did play 

O'er a sleek panther crouched to stalk the prey 

That timorously advanced that fatal way. 

In strange tropic forests, he, the Brute, 
Dreaming became the Dreamer . . . From their ease 
He stirred his mighty limbs, roused him from rest, 
Reared upright in his leafy crest, 

[4] 



And long and mute 

He gazed afar where his troubled vision caught 

Glint of the wide sea luring through the trees. 

Was it a touch unseen 

Of the Moulder's hand that swift and keen 

Struck to the misty depths of his forming mind 

Vague premonition of a human kind 

To spring from his being? Growth 

In its pang of promise rousing him from sloth 

Of brute life? Sudden thrill 

Of an age-old blood working its final will? 

From his lips there broke 

A man-like cry. 

The startled echo sought 

New answer and new answer spoke; 

And all the myriad listeners in their lairs 

Stood guard, and their myriad pairs 

Of gleaming eyes kept vigil, while bodingly 

The high heart beat with a fear untaught. 

Then the swift wings brushed 

Through sibilant leafage, and with sudden stir 

From reedy depths rose angry hiss and burr, 

And far and near began 

A hasting of the forest-dwellers' clan 

And rustling flight, as if portentous word 

The hidden hosts impulsively had stirred 

With direful message ominous of Man. 

[5] 



The strutting cock drooped low his spreading plumes 

And babbled plaintive warning to his mate; 

The parrakeets slunk silent where the glooms 

Of tropic fronds might hide their burnished state; 

The chattering monkeys scampered far aloft 

Swinging in panic huddle tree to tree, 

And demonlike from out his hidden croft 

The vampire dashed in blinded errancy; 

White-bearded lemurs, furtive in their nests, 

Betrayed their spectral faces to the day; 

And sluggish serpents reared their glittering crests 

Up from the humid mould with sinuous sway — 

Hiss reechoing hiss as all their evil kind 

Startled to dim forewarning of its foe 

Fanged fierce defiance to the conquering Mind, 

God-demon to the beasts that crawl below. 

God-demon to the beasts from whence he sprung 

Into the life of Dreamer dreaming free 

Out of the Old the New — bright worlds to be 

From every world created, deep among 

The farther stars yet farther burning clear. 

High sun outshining sun in every sky, — 

Till glamour flashes glamour on his eye, 

And summons rouses summons in his ear, 

And purpose waking purpose breeds the skill 

To find the ways of Nature and to bend 

Her laws to his design, to his her end, 

And Destinies are humbled to his Will! 



[6] 



He swung 

Balanced with muscled ease — 

Courser of the spaceways of the trees — 

Tawn against the sky, insouciant 

To all his nether realm's monstrosity 

Of nutrient decay and fruitful leprosy: 

Fat livid growths and starvelings gaunt 

Mingling the breath 

Of noisome life with murk of death 

In the black loins of forest, — whence upflung 

The great sun-seeking pillars of his world ! 

Huge girths, with writhing parasites encurled, 

And heavy hung 

With bearded mosses, whilst pale orchis-ghosts, 

Clinging with desperate tendrils to their hosts, 

Glimmered like stars the dusky fronds among. 

So he swung 

Midway 'twixt Earth and Heaven, mute, 

His straining eyes 

Smitten with visioned destinies: 

With vague surmise 

Of glories yet to spring 

In some dim way from his disquieting, 

Of mighty beings that should make their own 

The snowy splendours of the peaks that shone 

Beyond the luring seas — 

Races Titanic and the battling broods 

Of Northern giants for whose monstrous toil 



[7] 



Flame should be servant and the granite earth 

A plastic minister, — till the full spoil 

At length be won to some high birth, 

Conqueror and King 

Of those far-shining altitudes! 

And the dreaming Brute 

Dimly foredreamt the plan 

And image of Divinity; and at last 

Were far desire and aspiration vast 

Wakened to living spirit; and in Man 

Creation was at fruit. 



[8] 



Ill 

Strange prayers ascending up to God 
Through all the aching aeons, year on year; 
Strange tongues uplifting from the sod 
The old antiphony of hope and fear: 
Strange if He should not hear! 

There was the primal hunter, where he stood 

Manlike, not man, lone in the darkening wood 

When fell the storm: 

From hill to hill it leaped, snuffed light and form, 

Licked up the wild, 

And him — lost hunter ! — him left isled 

Mid desolation. Bogey-wise 

Down the tempestuous trail 

Gaunt Terrors sprang with shrill wolfish wail 

And windy Deaths flew by with peering eyes . . . 

Then in the dread and dark 

To the dumb trembler staring stark. 

Just for the moment, beaconlike there came 

The Ineffable, the Name ! . . . 

Oh, wildered was the dull brain's grope 

With anguish of a desperate dear hope 

Escaping! . . . 'Twas a Name 

Not his to frame 

Whose clouded eye, tongue inarticulate, 

Thought's measure and thought's music yet await: 

Not his the Name . . . but such the hunter's cry 

As souls do utter, that must die! 

[9] 



There was the bronze-hued youth who knelt In awe 

Within a shrine of cypress and of fern 

Dewed with baptismal spray 

From the granite urn 

Of the down-plunging cataract, giant-wrought. 

Night and day 

With yearning eyes he sought 

The vision that the waters' sprite should give 

To be his totem, — signing his right to live 

And die the warrior, soul secure 

That with him stood the invisible brood 

Of valiant powers peopling his solitude. 

Against the gleaming blue 

From the bald crag there flew 

The Eagle of his dreams, and far and clear 

Above the choric waters, to his ear: 

'1 am the Wakan of the Middle Sky, 

"Dwelling the Shining Quiet nigh, — 

*'Come follow, follow, follow! Glory is on high!" 

Oh, light to endure 

Is ache of fast and vigil, be the cure 

This right with eagle gaze deep worlds to span! 

So strode he to his tribesmen a warrior and a man. 

There was the savage mother: she who gave 
Her child, her first-born, wailing into the hand 
Of the black priest, upright at the prow . . . 
The glistening bodies rhythmicly did bow, 
And from the rushy strand 
Broad paddles drave 

[10] 



The sacrificial craft with gauds bedecked. 

He held it high — 

With mummery and mow 

The fetish priest held high 

The offering, — then stilled its cry 

Beneath the torpid wave . . . 

Sudden the pool was flecked 

With scaly muzzle, yellow saurian eye, 

And here a fount of crimson bubbling nigh! . . . 

Shout came answering shout 

From all the horde 

That round about 

Waited the sign of fetish god adored, 

Waited the sign with lust of blood implored ! . . 

But she — the mother, — in her eyes there shone 

A dazzle of calm waters, and her heart's flood 

Was dried, and bone of her bone 

Burned in her, and she stood 

Like to an image terrible in stone. 

Aye, men have prayed 

Strangely to God: 
Through thousand ages, under thousand skies, 
Unto His thousand strange theophanies, 
Men have prayed . . . 
With rite fantastic and with sacrifice 
Of human treasure, scourged w^ith the heavy rod 
Of their own souls' torment, men have prayed 

Strangely to God . . . 

[11] 



East, North, South, West, 

The quartered Globe, 

Like a prone and naked suppliant whose breast 

A myriad stinging memories improbe — 

Hurt of old faiths, 

And the living scars 

Of dead men's anguish, slow-dissolvent wraiths 

Of long-gone yearnings, and delirious dream 

Of sacrificial pomp and pageant stream: 

Gods of the nations and their avatars ! — 

East, North, South, West, 

The suppliant Globe 

Abides the judgment of the changeless stars, — 

Abides the judgment and the answering aid 

Of Heaven to the prayers that men have prayed 

Strangely to God . . . 
Out of the living Past, 
Children of the dragon's teeth, they spring 
Full-panoplied — the idols vast 
That man has wrought of man's imagining 
For man's salvation . . . 
Isle and continent, continent and isle, 
Lifting grim forms unto his adoration 
In tireless variation 
Of style uncouth with style. 
Until the bulky girth 
Of the round zoned Earth 
Is blazoned o'er 

As with a zodiac of monsters, each dread lore 
In turn begetting dreadful lore. 

[12] 



The gods of Aztlan: Huitzil, gorge agape, 

His threatening barb 

Uplifted, body girt chain upon chain 

With jewels in the shape 

Of human hearts, — Huitzil, and he. 

The lord of winged winds and the lord of rain, 

Quetzal, gorgeous in his garb 

Of tropic plumage; and a deity 

Than these more awful — the subtile one 

Whose form to sight is glass and to the touch 

Is thinnest air, — 

Tezcatlipoca, joying to make his couch 

Deep in the thoughts of men, and there. 

Behind the screen of sense, 

Invisible, impalpable, immense, 

Begetting wrathful war . . . 

Stair after wretched stair 

The captive mounts the teocalli's height. 

Where wait the ministers of the bloody rite 

Mid murk of smoking altars. Scarce the prayer 

Escapes his parched lips, ere the throbbing heart 

Is raised to Tonatiuh, to the Sun, — 

And blare of conches and the shrill upstart 

Of pipes proclaim the blood-bought benison : 

How God at last with man is wholly one 

Beneath the burning mansions of the Sun ! 

They arise 
From the dark burials of the nations: 
From plain and mountain, from desert and from field, 

[13] 



Like ghostly monarchs from a tomb long sealed, 

They arise — 
These living dead, mid echoing sound 
Of olden supplications: 
Isis, and her lord Osiris bound 
In mummying cerements; 
Thoth, of the hawklike head. 
Bearing the mystic Book that read 
Unto the living the secrets of the dead; 
And out of the Orient, the azure queen, 
Astarte of the Skies, serene 
Above her horned altars, with the sweet 
Of myrrh and frankincense 
And a multitudinous bleat 
Of bullocks honoured; she of Ind, 
Kali, the black, passing like a wind 
With blight and pestilence; 
And the giant ape, red Hanuman, her mate 
In might immortal and immortal hate; 
Ormazd and Ahriman warring light with night; 
And Mithras, the Conqueror, who gave 
The blood baptism of the cave 
Men's souls to save; 

And nigh these, the lordly ones and bright 
Who in their godly right 
Of beauty ruled and feasted on Olympus* height. 

From the dark burials of the nations 
Mid echoing supplications 
They arise . . . 

[14] 



Mid echoing supplications: 

Prayers and cries 

Of men in strait of battle, ecstasies 

Of saints, and the deep-toned call 

Of prophets prophesying over all 

The devastation of a kingdom's fall . . . 

The ruins of the temple still resound 

With women weeping Tammuz' yearly wound ; 

And still from out the vale 

Do ghostly voices lift the ancient wail 

Of those who gashed their bodies, crying "Baal ! Baal !" 

When Baal was gone ahunting. Still Mahound 

Leads desert hordes to battle: 

"Allah! Ya Allah! La Allah ilah Allah!" 

And Paradise is found 

In arch of flashing cimetars. Still go 

In nightly revelry through field and town 

Curete, Bacchant and wild Corybant, 

Rapt Maenad by the god intoxicant. 

And the swift-dancing rout 

Of frenzied Galli raising olden shout 

To Attis and to Cybele: 

"lo Hymenaee Hymen lo! 

"lo Hymen Hymenaee!". . . 

While adown 
The vanished centuries endure 
The chanting of dead Incas: "Make me pure, 
"O Vira Cocha, make me ever pure!" . . . 

[15] 



— There, in the blackness of Gethseman's grove, 

One anguisht night He strove 

Mightily with God ... 

Hour by hour there passed 

Athwart the gloom 

A huge ensanguined image, like a shadow cast 

By outstretched arms, and overspread 

The living and the dead 

Throughout the wide world's room . . . 

And so His prayer was said. 

And answered. 

Oh, up to God 

Through all the aching aeons, year on year, 

Men's prayers ascend, 

In hope and fear 

Striving to bend 

His pity and His wrath forefend . . . 

Strange if He should not hear! 



[16] 



IV 



O'er quiet prairies swept tumultuous winds 

Through the wide-pasturing skies their billowy flocks 
aherding; 
While poised on the marge of da}' the lingering sun 
The circle of the earth with zones of flame was 

girding. . . 
And, oh, the heart of man beat high with hope past 
wording ! 

Summons of the western sea, 

Lure of the sunset gold, 
Tales of the things to be 

By the mighty ones of old, 
Into his spirit borne with a poignancy untold. 

From the mummying East he came, a w^anderer, 

At last the tropic thrall of her lotos-dream outstriven, 

From her w^hispering embraces at last released, — 

As into an alien world from their sweet Eden driven, 
In mournful quest of peace wander souls unshriven. 

Forth of the ancient East 

Into the glowing West, 
Dream of a richer feast 

Filling his aching breast 
With an ever new desire, with an ever old unrest. 



[17] 



Oh, far it is to the hills whose climbing peaks 

Ensentinel the plain like armored wardens shining; 

And far it is where the stars their watches keep, 

Above the dark abyss in spacious courses twining . . . 
And far to the final haven foreseen of the heart's divin- 
ing. 

Out of the level plain, 

Into the silent skies, 
Rises the glittering chain 

Like a coast of Paradise, 
And the spirit of man is big with yearning of high emprize. 

The spirit of man ever burns for the things unseen, 
When strong in moody will the valiant soul rejoices, — 

But only the Sages of Pain can reckon the toil. 

And only the Choosers can tell the cost and the gain of 

their choices . . . 
Far down the aisles of Time echo their ringing voices: 

"Who conquereth through pain. 
His be the eagle's share! 
He shall ride the hurricane, 

He shall nest in the thunder's lair. 
And the solitudes of Heaven by the might of his pinions 
dare!" 



[18] 



Men walk In ways untrod, seeking the goal 

In mystic oracles by the archons of life forespoken, 
And the pace is ever slow and the step is halt, 

And many there be are lost, and many there be are 
broken. 
And whoso is strong in the race his brow bears a terrible 
token. 

Token it is of thought 

That hath easelessly inbled, 
Sight that his eyes have caught — 

Like a seeing by the dead — 
Of the far alluring plains his feet may never tread. 

From the ancient East he came into the West 

In the dawn of his human life, in the days of his soul's 
unbinding, 
And out of the West to the East with the circling years, 
And out of a blinded Past into a Future blinding . . . 
For the course of his star is set to ways beyond his find- 
ing. 



[19] 



Of blood and dreams are built the towns of men 
Of bitter blood and lustful dreams of power, 
And of men's black endeavour and the tears 
Of pallid women weeping through the years. 

The slow-unwinding scroll 

Measures the centuries . . . and at her hour, 

Answering the summons, comes 

Each city, — as after battle, to the roll 

March broken regiments 

With throb of sullen drums . . . 

Each city comes, rising avast 

From out sepulchral cerements. 

And then. 

Like a dissolvent spectre, sinks again 

Into her buried past. 

Memphis is gone 

And Thebes of an hundred gates, — 

But still the Sphinx unblinkingly awaits 

The reader of her riddle, and still 

With each recurrent dawn 

The disked sun 

Smites singing Memnon. 

Where now, where now, are those 

Whose pageantries did fill 

The cities of the living? They are led 

[20] 



In bonds, with veiled head, 

Into still chambers — and the light and laughter 

Of their feasts hath followed after . . . 

Oh, wiselier skilled, 

The dark twy-crowned Pharaohs 

Wiselier did build 

Their desert cities of the dead! 

Whose burning granite sears 

Their kingly names into the passing years. 

As in a dream I saw the aching myriads 

Toiling the toil 

Stupendous of the pyramids . . . 

Athwart the soil 

They dragged the monolithic stones. 

And far and near did flash 

The whipster's ruddy lash: 

I heard the groans 

Of men that labored dying, 

And I heard the sound 

Of little children crying . . . crying . . . 

Then my dream vanished; and I saw instead 

A silent desert, and mound with mound 

The crumbling: habitations of the dead. 



'is 



Memphis and Thebes are gone, 

And mighty Babylon ! 

She that league on league was girt 

With brazen-gated walls, whilst the spires 

Of her thousand temples shone with the fires 

Of a thousand altars . . . Babylon ! 

[21] 



Doughty to keep or hurt, 

Mightiest thou wert 

In all the plain of Shinar ! — 

Wide Shinar, where anciently was sung 

In Accad's perished tongue, 

The war of Light and Chaos: how, flashing leven, 

Lordly Marduk strave 

With cloudy Tiamat, and from her body clave 

Earth and high Heaven . . . 

While jubilant 

The dancing stars their morning joy did chant. 

E'en from the voiceless days 

Of man's beginnings, within her ample halls. 

The powerful and the wise have held their state: 

Priest-kings that sate 

In judgment by the temple gate; 

Monarchs loud in the praise 

Of long-forgotten gods; the patient seers 

Who through uncounted years 

Charted the nightly heavens; conquerors 

In unrecorded wars; 

And contrite builders, paying holy debt 

Of symbol 'd towers, that yet 

Were but memorials of memorials. 

Wise Hammurabi, he who set 

On graven tables men's first laws; 

Sargon, vv^Ith bonds of stubborn clay 

Binding the free Euphrates; and that queen, 

Glorious in strength, terrible in spleen, 

[22] 



Whose name still awes 

The centuries, — Semiramis ! Yea, 

And after these, the form — 

Shadowy and colossal as the desert Jinn - 

Of him who like a whirling storm 

On Judah fell, 

And for her impious sin 

Carried her wailing to captivity, — 

Nebuchadrezzar, mighty under Bel ! . . . 

And Cyrus came, and the Great King 

Darius, and o'er Asia furled 

The Persian wing. 

And after, out of Macedon came he. 

The splendid Greek, who won 

Domain of the level world, 

And died in Babylon. 

So she that was the Seat of Life, 

She is become a mound 

Of sunken ruin, compassed round 

With silence. Her palaces begot 

In the emulous strife 

Of dynasties, her temples crowned 

Each with its golden ziggurat — 

Labor of captive nations long ago. 

Whose final course was run 

Beneath a pestilential sun 

For kingly pleasure and for kingly show,- 

They are become but heaps 

Of rotting bricks, where stealthily creeps 

[23] 



Down the forgotten stair 

The gaunt cat of the desert to his lair. 

Who reckoneth the roll 

Of perished cities ? . . . 

Lost Nineveh 

O'erwrit with boast of carnage, and the strewn 

Boulders of Persepolis, and far Pasargadae, — 

Oh, big in pomp and pride were they, 

And lean in pities ! . . . 

And Petra, from the living rock strange-hewn; 

And athwart the desert way. 

Palmyra of the Pillars taking toll 

Of laden caravans; gray Sidon by the Sea, 

And siege-strong Tyre; Sardis rich in gold 

And in lust richer; and Priam's town, 

Ilion, of old 

For war high-armed! 

Yea, and lovely in abandonment 

As a charmed princess in a castle charmed, 

The marble tent of Mogul Akbar . . . 

And the great exemplar, 

She that was ground unremittingly 

Betwixt the upper and the nether mill, — 

In dreadful alternation bent 

Beneath the supple claws 

Of the lithe Egyptian, or stricken down 

By the muscled bull, Assyria,-— 

Zion, builded on a hill ! . . . 

And last, giver of their laws 

[24] 



Unto the nations, Imperial Rome, — 
Like some vast volcanic dome 
That falling into ashes stars 
The waste with lurid splendours. 

They pass 
Like dreams of glory, and their names 
Become as sounding brass, 
And their lordly vaunt 

Is in men's mouths a byword and a taunt . . . 
As cities shall pass, — or in the flames 
Of swift disaster, or in the rust 
Of years, — each to its due extinguishment 
Under the sun . . . 
Until to the lingering one — 
Some far broad-domed Bokhara falling into dust 
The planet stays her nutrient yield, 
And the desert gates are sealed 
On the last oasis of a dying continent. 

Ah, shall there be ere then 
The Perfect City?. . . 
The city wistfully forethought 
By men whom men count wise: 
As in a stately dream 
To Plato came in marble Academe 
His vision of the City of the Blest — 
A vision in her dim unrest 
By the imagination pearled 
To harmonize an inharmonic world, — 
A place of marvel, more to the soul's emprize 

[25] 



Than Cibola's golden seven, — Utopia, wrought 

Of strength and beauty! . . . 

Her spacious plan 

Is broad to house the nations, her citizen 

Is such a Man 

As was designed 

By the Archetypal Mind 

When in shadowy seas began the strife 

Of life begetting and destroying life — 

A Man destined to reign 

High Overlord of Fear 

And King of Nature, holding as his domain 

The charted sphere ! . . . 

Ah, shall there yet be 
This Earthly Paradise? 
This habitation of felicity 
Foretokening the City of the Skies? 
This seat of mortal bliss 
Whose image renders 
Unto the spiritual eye 
Forevision of that vast metropolis 
Of the immortals, 
Which to the soul lays ope 
Eternal portals? . . . 
Altitude o'er altitude lifting high 
Its emulous splendours — 
Whereof the culmen is the Cosmic Hope! ... 

To-day the cities that we build 
Possess a monstrous beauty, — as if material 

[26] 



Dug in some quarry of old thought, 

Some castle ruinous of mind, some burial 

Of dead desire, 

Mossed block by mossed block were drawn 

And carven to an airy vision caught 

From the large magnificence of the mellow dawn 

Till with dome and pinnacle and spire 

Each in its own resplendancy afire 

Appears the City, many-hilled 

And glorious, — summoning on and on 

In iterance majestical 

Like ringing prophecies long unfulfilled. 
Oh, we have heard 

The summoning of the City from afar! 

Calling with a blurred 

And multitudinous voice, like the voice resolvent 

Of the waves upon a distant bar; 

And her echoing word, 

Sovereign and solvent, 

Has drawn us as a spell 

Living and irresistible: 
"I am the City . . . 
**The secret thing ye seek 
"My lips, my lips, my myriad lips alone 
"Are wise to speak: 

"I am the City . . . 
"The life that ye would live 
"My life, my life, my manifold life alone 
"Is strong to give: 

"I am the City . . .'^ 

[27] 



We have heard, — and for a day, 

As in some dusty caravanserai 

Cosmopolite with pilgrims, we have sate 

Within her gates, disconsolate 

For the still and starry zone 

Of night and the sea's resurgent monotone. 

From the low flood, murky as the Styx, 

That soughs and licks 

Along her massy and tenebrous base 

With changeful treachery of calm and race. 

The city's skyline rises, jagged, black. 

Against the lightening east, — funnel and stack 

Each with its waft of sullen fume 

Outwavering, like a fetid plume 

Flaunted in the face 

Of morning purity, — 

Until the city seems to be 

Some grim volcanic chain 

Upheaved athwart the sombre plain. 

Yet dully quaking. 

Of a continent in the making. 

And she is the house of life 

And the palace of desire. 

And all her ways are thronged with hurrying feet. 

And all her stately edifice is rife 

With seekers for a hidden sweet . . . 

And she is the house of death 

And a charnel of perished hope, 

[28] 



And all her dark foundations are bestead 

Mid bones of men that for her hire 

Inbreathed her pestilent breath . . . 

And in her noisome alleys grope 

Wan mothers grieving for their tiny dead . . 

She hath twain souls: 

Whereof the one 

Is metal'd o'er with armor, plate on plate 

Of gold and shining silver conflagrate 

And steel of curious enginry, 

Till like the molten sun 

He is, — Mammon, who takes his tolls 

Of women's love and of the strength of men, 

And of youth's hot blood and aching visionry, 

Eking a senile and decrepit joy 

From the ranger fancy of the boy 

Caught by the glitter of his shrewd decoy . . 

Mammon is the one. His mate 

Is nameless, a spirit sovereign 

And dark, whose stern far-seeing gaze 

Searches the hidden ways 

Oi life, and reads the regnant fate 

That measures weal to come 

Against her present hecatomb. 

High on a swinging beam — 

The collar of a tower, taut 

With steely rib and tendon, building nigher 

To heaven than e'en Babel did aspire, — 

[29] 



Stood forth the Man, the Maker, caught 

Up into the skies . . . • 

He gazed below 

Into the street — a microscopic show 

Aswarm with skurrying atomies; 

Then raised his eyes 

O'er plain and river and far-shimmering seas, 

Unto the quiet blue ... 

And his spirit grew 

Glad in eternal majesties, 

And the works of men did seem 

But frail and wind-blown tenements 

Marking the slow ascents 

Unto the splendours of his ancient dream. 

Of blood and dreams are built the towns of men 

Of bitter blood and lustful dreams of power. 

And dreams of beauty . . . 

Throughout the years 

Meted by man's endeavour and woman's tears, 

Like regiments to duty. 

They come, answering the roll — 

City on city and nation after nation . . . 

And throughout the years 

On far horizons aye appears 

The City of the Spirit, biding the hour 

Of advent and of consecration ... 

Yea, throughout the years 

Man's aspiration finds its changeless goal 

In aspiration. 

[30] 



VI 



I had a vision of the King of Pain 

In awful crucifixion high enthroned 

Within the hollow of a universe 

Emptied of light and substance: there was night 

inimitably deep, whose galaxies 

Were shrunk to puny and ineffectual stars 

And brought to naught mid spacious desolation. 

I saw a ghostly glamour spun afar 
Athwart the surface of the black abyss 
In nebulous perturbation, and I heard 
A sound like to a smothered turbulence 
Of distant and distressful multitudes 
Whose myriad voices were molten to one cry 
As metals in a furnace to one heat. 

They were the souls of human agonies, 

The countless spirits of the hurts that men 

Have suffered for the making of the world: 

Harsh pangs of birth and grievings for the dead 

And smarts of passion, and strain of them that strove 

Till broken on the rack of their endeavour, 

And the wound of them that sought with sightless eyes. 



[31] 



Out of the nether night, a spectral train, 
They came, mounting- her gloomy altitudes 
In a huge crescendic flame of living torments; 
And they bore faces, faces fixed and terrible 
Like to the faces of men dead in anguish; 
And they uplifted pleading arms — yea, myriads 
Of pleading arms they raised emptily on high. 

They were the souls of human agonies 

Caught up into a vast and eddying throe 

Of wraths and woes and tears, and far outspun 

By the great whorl of changeless destinies; 

They were the souls of human agonies 

Offered upon the altar of the world 

In expiation of the cosmic sin. 

Out of the night they came tumultuously 
Upsurging through the void until they rose 
Unto the awful station of the Throne 
Of suffering, whereof th' ensanguined light — 
Like to the searching rays with which the sun 
Metes out the millions of the comet's miles — 
O'er that dread train shot sanguine revelation. 



[32] 



And all their clamorous and woeful cry 
Was blended to a deep threnodic prayer 
For pity, that did beat, as shattered waves 
Upon a rock, desirous and despairing, 
High on the Cosmic Calvary, where his Rood 
Did mightily upbear the thorn-crowned King 
Above the abysmic center of the world. 

I had a vision of the King of Pain 

Uplifted o'er the souls of human hurts 

In terrible Atonement; and his eyes 

Anguisht and compassionate, were on them turned 

Everlastingly, and everlastingly 

His palms, nail-riven to the Cross, were spread 

In awful benediction o'er their woe. 

Yea, I beheld the Lordship of the World 
Midmost of the circling universe enthroned 
In high and kingly beauty; and I knew 
The sovereign cost of life, and again I knew 
The sovereign redemption; and I saw 
How through the aching aeons still is paid 
The price of beauty in a price of pain. 



[33] 



VII 

Awake! For the white-pillared porches 

Of dawn are flung open to day! 
And the jubilant voices of morning 
With laughter and boisterous warning 
On, on through the azuring arches 
Summon away! 

Awake! They are dead who are sleeping! 

Awake! They who drowse are unborn! 
'Tis the voice of the summoning spirit, 
And they who delay when they hear it 
Are the lame and the halt and the creeping 

Creatures of scorn! 

'Tis a radiant damsel arraying 

Her beauties with ruby and pearl, — 
'Tis the scarlet and gold and the glamour 
Where mid clashing of arms and mid clamour 
Of trumpets and war-horses neighing 
Banners outfurl, — 

'Tis the leap and the swing of the dancers, 

Where the torches are circling on high, 
Who call on strange gods in their madness 
To stay them, to stay them of gladness, — 
'Tis the pitiless charge of the lancers 
That smite hip and thigh, — 



[34] 



'Tis the rush of the blood in its prisons, 

'Tis the beat of the blood in the ears, 
'Tis the shock of the heart and the shiver 
Of the soul when the red living river 
Is let and the strength of man wizens 
Under white fears! 

Oh, swifter than the wings of the eagle 
And stronger than he is Desire — 

And she grippeth the soul unreleasing. 

And she troubleth the soul without ceasing, 

And she fareth afar on her regal 
Pinions of fire. 

And nearer than sight is or hearing, 

And keener than pain is or bliss, 
Are her light and her sound and her passion 
Where she patiently layeth her lash on 
And striketh the soul w^ith endearing 
And terrible kiss: 

And deeper than sleep is or death is. 

And shrewder than life is or love 
Are the surge and the sweep of endeavour, 
Like a turbulent wind, like the fever 
Of a burning tornado whose breath is 
Whirled from above: 



[35] 



Oh, the glittering things ye call real things, 

And the glittering thoughts ye call truth. 
They are trinkets and baubles and apings 
For children and impotent shapings 
Of the cowardly hearts that conceal things 
Burdened with ruth. 

They are weaves out of dream and illusion, 

They are fabricks of mockery and cheat, 
And their show is but shamming of graces, 
And they stead ye in ruinous places, 
And their work is a work of confusion 
Compact in deceit. 

Yea, the glittering things ye call real thin^, 

They are bauble and toy, they are dream,- 
But the world that is real is another 
Than this where we swelter and smother 
And in tawdry and tinsel conceal things 
Meant to redeem. 

And the heart of the man that is fearless. 

And the vision of him that is wise, 
They are strong unto Nature's revealing, 
And he bursteth the seals of her sealing, 
And layeth her beauteous and peerless 
Prone to his eyes. 



[36] 



Till the edge of the world Is upblazlng 
With pillars of thunderous flame, 

And the breadth of the world is resplendant 

With scintillant glories ascendant 

From nadir to zenith upraising 
Tempestuous brame. 

Oh, nearer than seeing or touch is. 

And keener than bliss is or pain, 
Are the quiver and thrill of her haunting. 
And the tug of her Tantalus taunting, 
Till the life that we nourish and clutch is 
A thing of disdain. 

Awake! For as dead are the sleeping! 

Awake! As unborn he who nods! 
But the summoning voice of the spirit. 
It shall rouse, it shall rouse them that hear it 
From the ranks of the lame and the creeping 

Up to the conquering gods! 



[37] 



VIII 

There comes a kind of quieting with years 

Which soothes our griefs and stills the turbulent fears 

That threat and sting the youth 

Of man, — whose heritage is ruth 

Of ancient deed, and flicker of old thought 

Deep smouldering, and dead love's heavy dole, 

And taunt of buried passions in the soul, — - 

The saintliness and sin of sires forgot. 

Yes, there is quiet as our elder days 

Give us in thrall to the accustomed ways 

Which our tamed wearied feet 

Impassively repeat ... 

A quiet and a peace 

Sabbatical and solemn. 

Like to the still and sunny mood 

That falls to bless 

With strange and delicate loveliness 

Some antique column 

Standing amid its solitude 

Of vine and ruin, — until the smart 

Of olden passion fain would heal, 

And a cool and balmy ease 

Suffuses the tired limbs, and reveries steal 

With ministering gentleness 

Upon the stilling heart. 



[38] 



There comes a quieting, and the strength to view 

With even contemplation 

The full narration 

Of men's ways, and to sever false from true. 

And the high court of the ages 

Marshals her witnessing years and sits 

In patient judgment, while her graybeard sages 

With thoughtful and compassionate eyes 

Decipher the dark writs 

Of human deed . . . 

Outmeasuring life's meed 

Of joy against its costly sacrifice, 

And laying bare 

Unto the foolish and the wise 

The ways that men must fare. 

Across the glass of time 
Darkling as in a shadowy mime 
Slow flit the images of those 
Who blindly sought and chose 
With zealous blindness, — each 
Unto the led multitude 
Striving to teach 
His vision of the good. 

Came he who walked with feet unshod 
The burning wilderness, content to eat 
Locusts and wild honey for his meat 
And brother with the beasts that slink 

[39] 



In silence to their brackish nightly drink, 
So he might find his solitary God: 

And he who taught 

In flowing vestments with rich broidery wrought, 

Mid pleasant gardens voluptuous with the sweet 

Of roses, joying in the lissome line 

Of maiden youth, and finding the divine 

In gracious flagons of empurpled wine: 

And he who sat 

Beneath the spreading tree 

Of contemplation, impassively 

To Arhat and to Bodhisat 

Pointing the Fourfold Way unto surcease 

Of human ill and ire 

In the nerveless soul's release 

From soul's desire: 

He in whose trumpeted tones resound 

The thunderings of battle. 

Calling his crescent squadrons, — till in red pall 

Of flame and blood the sickened world is wound. 

And wide around 

Is shrieking and shouting and the grisly rattle 

Of death at the throats of men, and crash 

Of hurtling chargers, where the nations flee and fall 

Like driven cattle 

Under the blizzard's lash: 



[40] 



And He who gave . . . gave all 

The sweetness of His life to piteous pain 

That men might gain 

A strange and distant and redeeming grace 

Which in the Kingdom's day should fall 

Like a sacred halo o'er the face 

Of the anguisht Universe, 

Healing its hidden curse. 

Yea, these be they 

Whom men have followed . . . But who shall say, 

Who then shall say what life is wise ? , . . 

There were ten virgins, and of them five 

Were foolish virgins, walking in sorrow, 

Nor light nor wisdom might they borrow. 

Nor might they wistfully arrive 

To greet the bridegroom, save by aid 

Of their own groping hands and blinded eyes: 

So to their folly was their love betrayed. 

Through all the years 

Of human laughter and of human tears 

Sages and jesters, turn by turn 

Essay the riddle . . . And the teachers learn 

And the learners teach 

While the slow centuries slow upreach 

Where the world's elusive Wisdom broods 

In cloudy majesty o'er hidden altitudes . . . 



[41] 



There comes a kind of quieting with years 

And with the years there comes 

A high and eerie peace, — 

As the homing spirit nears 

The sought release 

From her too mortal sense . . . 

And as in a swound 

Supernal she is enwound 

Within a pulse of melody, and in her ear. 

Nearer than sound is near, 

A suave voice hums 

A sky-born music, and all the world is tense 

With loveliness . . . And the leaven 

Of beauty within the spirit burning 

Summons her ever higher, — 

Yea, as the stars inspire 

The plangent waves that leap with ceaseless yearning 

Sonorously to heaven. 



[42] 



IX 



Earth ! 
Thou wert his Mother, 
Who was conceived within thy fiery womb 
Ere time began 

And by the laboring years brought forth 
Unto the stalwart stature of a Man, — 
Thou wert his body's Mother, 
As thou shalt be his dread 
And desert tomb 

When all thy myriad life is gone. 
And on and on 
Thou still dost keep 

An even pace, an even pace, though dead. 
With thy far-shining sisters of the Deep: 

Earth ! 
Thou wert his Mother, 
But his high sire — 

First of the deathless gods — was of another 
And a lordlier line : 
Eros, of the glowing wings, 
Eros, dartler of desire, 

Bright son of Beauty, in whose blood divine 
There is immortal fever 
And such a quickening fire 
As glorifieth aye the tears of things 
And fresheneth Love forever. 



[43] 



IN MEMORIAM 

I. R. A. 
I 

Then I walked in the midst of the desert and the wild 

Companioning with Sorrow. She beguiled 

The tedious way with vision of old woes, 

And sundering pangs and heavy-heaved throes, — 

The ache and strain of aeons long agone. 

Lo, the bright sun wavered and waned wan, 
And all the distant heavens were dissolved. 
And all the skies were starred with prismic rays, 
Shot opaline, and phantasied with maze 
Of billowing nebulae. Where I did gaze 
The spreading prairie vanished : 'twas resolved 
Back to the antique sea, whose restless surge. 
Crooning the sea's old monody, did purge 
Unquiet lands with wash of thermal waves. 

Lo, the ribbed rock crumbled, and the laminate graves 
Gave up their sealed dead, and the wide sea stirred 
And writhed reptilian. All about was heard 
Palpitant piping, chirrup, croak and quark. 
And ululate trill, and yelp and raucous bark, 
And teening waul, and sudden-dying cheep. 
And thrashings of bulked monsters in the Deep; 
And all the waste of quivering waters shone 
With iridescent armor, scale and bone, 

[44] 



With scarlet crest, and glinting ebony 
Of fin and spine combing the serpent sea. 

And all was anarchy and war. Behold, 

A flicker on the waves, a flame of gold. 

An undulate sprite, radiant as a star. 

Coursing from foam to foam — fleet avatar 

Of beauty! And behold him rent in twain 

By serrate jaws, his beauty all his bane! 

I saw the hatching young which aye did swarm 

Upon the heated strand new tint and form 

And fantasy of life; and saurian maw 

Insatiate consum.ed them. And I saw 

A dun leviathan heave from the reek and roil 

His armored body, weary coil on coil, 

High to the trembling beach. He raised his eyes 

In blear unfocal longing where the skies 

Oped gleaming portals, and heavily he sighed, 

And laid his cumbrous head at rest, and died. 

But a rift in the cloud and a lake of sunny blue, 
And a wild up-winging songster singing true — 
First in God's w^orld. Oh, monstrous! doth him seek 
A thing of bat-like wing and toothed beak, — 
And song is wholly perished from the earth. 
And sky again engloomed in cloudy girth. 

Then it was night. The old sea swooned to rest, 

And the old life hushed upon the mother-breast 

Of the old, old world. From afar a cool wind blew 

[45] 



With murmuring caress and kiss of dew, 

Smoothing the tangled grasses; while the soft 

Still light of stars from heaven's near loft 

Hallowed the haunting reaches of the plain. 

Dimly I heard an echo, as of rain 

Upon the distant corn; and I felt a thrill 

Of earth responsive to the rhythmic will 

Of myriad-beating hoof; and fleet with fears 

I saw the perished cattle of past years 

Leap near and near and gallop athwart the night. 

Came herded bison goaded in their flight 

By spectral terrors, — tongue aloll, and eye 

Bursting with flame of hunted agony; 

While ever as they ran with rasped breath, 

They fell and rose and fell again in death. 

Came stricken antelope, and on their trail 

The den's brood lifted up its wolfish wail 

In glutted weariness of blood. They stole 

Forth from the gloom and into gloom they passed 

Like a lost memory for a moment cast 

Upon the fleeting surface of the soul. 

So was the night grown kind again at last. 

Yet with the crimson dawn the race of man: 
He who first by the river paused to scan 
The plains of promise, breasted the yellow tide 
Till the hid current brought him death to bride; 
He who forth-followed, stolid and alone. 
Trail of the searching winds from zone to zone, 



[46] 



While the dark Herder branded deep his soul 
With deathless yearning for the unkenned goal ; 
He who came after with muscle and w^ith main 
To free from the prisoning sod its myriad grain, — 
Not his to reap ! — the plow stands in the soil 
Where the still arrow eased him of his toil : — 
Each by an aching aspiration drawn, 
I saw them pass, fleet phantoms of the dawn. 

Last thou! with blithe brave heart, with steadfast eye 
Turned where the Western mountains clutch the sky 
Emulous and mute; reckoning naught the pain 
Of heavy labor, so thy labor gain 
The fine gold of the summit . . . God passed by 
In thy flushed morning, gave thee hurt to die. 

II 

Oh, I have kept the vigil of the plain. 
Wind-wearied and afevered with the pain 
Of its hot sorrows — and the long night through 
Have hearkened to the muffled ghostly moan 
Of myriad creatures tombed in the stone. 
Have hearkened while the smothered murmur grew 
To a vast clamorous agonizing prayer 
For life and light, then blurred obliterate 
Beneath the mid-earth's heavy binding w^eight. 
With Silence come again and Death to lair. 

Oh, I have read the epic of the world. 
And sought with many a toil the secret pearled 

[47] 



In dim abysmic seas while yet the Plan 
Was making; striving if there might be guessed 
Some furtive message frdm this palimpsest 
O'erwrit with epitaphs: where it began 
Ever the reading ended, — but a scroll 
Of perished soul bewailing perished soul. 

Yea, through the changing seasons I have wrought 

With changeless labor welded thought with thought,- 

The labor was the comfort that it brought. 

Not any tithe for all the toils I spent; 

Not any answer in high mercy sent 

For soothing from the sullen firmament; 

No little hope, — the wonder that should come 

Messiah-like and show me waiting dumb 

The travail's meaning, — 'twas the travail's sum! 

Ill 

Today for the hundredth time I watched the worm 

Drag his laborious way with stretch and squirm 

And hard endeavour, seeking just the place 

To weave his chrysalis certain that 'twould face 

The winter and endure. Had he some vague 

Prenatal vision conquering the plague 

Of all this present effort? urgent dream 

Of far sweet sultry summer days ateem 

With musky odors, honey wines, and cloys 

Of palpitating blisses, winged joys? 

Had he the dream, — or just besetting sense 

[48] 



Of dim portentous destined consequence 
Bound to ensue on chrysalid cloister won: 
Dumb prophecy that toils in pain begun 
Must find in some strange volancy their end, — 
Not his to grasp, but surely God's to send 
If so God will? 

— Ah, but to wake at length 
A jewelled marvel, glorying in the strength 
Of sheeny pinions, and the livelong hours 
Flit thro' sweet summer's dreamed-of, golden bowers! 

A wonder! And at last 'tis true! Behold, 
Barely beyond the cloud's far-shadowed fold, 
A sunny spread of prairie, rippling grass 
Like fluttered waters where the breezes pass, 
And here, and here, the yellow-dappling spray 
Of golden-rod, dear to the summer's day. 
While, see! how cradle-like this tall blade swings 
Fay-freighted with the fanning yellow wings 
Of a butterfly just from his chrysalis 
Startled into life by the glad sun's kiss! 
Till, with the west-wind wooing him from rest, 
His primal flight essays to the luring crest 
Of yon corolla, sips the honey-dew 
Her love distils, then strengthened flits anew, 
Light as a blossom freed to seek the sun 
The boon of flight through adoration won. 

He first: then all the prairie's width besprent 
With butterfly and bloom. Each blossom sent 

[49] 



Sweet summoning, while, with perturbed wing, 
Or white or yellow, answering did cling 
To each a butterfly: yet but stayed to sup 
The drop of honey welling in her cup 
Ere joyous to the sun he fluttered up. 

So they arose in shimmering array 
Like an ascending snow through the golden day, 
O'erbroidering the sky with shining shoals 
Radiant as they tell shall be the souls 
Choiring high Heaven when the last trump rolls. 
So they ascended to the glowing noon: 
But low on earth the prairie was o'erstrewn 
With fallen petals; for each flower gave 
In the one sweetness guerdon of her grave, — 
In the one sweetness centered all her soul 
That butterflies might sip and seek the goal 
Of far sun-glory, all her life's desire, — 
That they might seek and win, though she expire. 

Yet was the dream-winged myriad scarce upborne 
Ere to the waiting earth fell bodies shorn. 
And broken pinion and the crumpled shell 
Mid the dead petals scattered as they fell . . . 

Nurtured a stronger wing for higher flight! 
And all the azure citadel of light 
Burst musical with golden-throated throng 
Of swift upsoaring avatars of song: 
So melody repaid the world its wrong! 

[50] 



IV 

So melody repaj^s, assailing still 
High Heaven with the rapture of its flow 
Exaltedly aspiring if to fill 

The world with sweet assuagement of its woe; 
So through the ancient struggle there remains, 
Urging the blind endeavour to the deed, 
Something of wonder that requites the pains 
And satisfies the fierce-besetting need, — 
Something of wonder and of beauty strange 
Sprung from the scathe and poison of the strife, 
Bearing aloft amid the bitter change 
With sign of suffering the sign of life. 
Giving with pain pain's high ennoblement, 
A glory that still sovereigns the dark 
Of all the aching aeons God hath lent 
For shaping from dead clay the spirit's ark. 

I know not yet the meaning of the rose 
That opes with dewy fragrance to the morn 
While to the noon her drooping petals close; 
Nor know I if her loveliness be scorn 
Or guerdon of His pitying desire; 
But, oh, I know that beauty is not loss. 
But potency to satisfy the tire 
And yield atoning grandeur to the Cross. 

I know not if the sweetness of a life 
Must ever, in the old unchanging way, 

[51] 



Come purest for the kindness of the knife, 
Or follow, like the sweetness of a lay, 
From olden woes and soriows; but I know 
That never hath such yearning beauty stood 
On any face, of all that come and go, 
As His which bore the token of the Rood, 
And never hath been quaffed the anguisht Cup 
Which the dark ministry of Gethseman brings 
Save the wrought soul through pain were lifted up 
To healing awe and hush of holy things. 



[52] 



TO ONE WHOM MEN CALLED MAD 

They said thy mind had wandered, meaning so 

That thou hadst ceased to think their thought alway, 

And say the things that they were wont to say, 

And know the world as they could only know. 

They said that thou wert mad: and they did deem 

That thy clear eyes beheld as in a dream 

But desperate phantasies, and thy soft touch 

Met senseless air, who piteously didst clutch 

At vacant wraiths and wan unbodied things; 

Yea, all thy maiden soul, they said, w^as thrall 

To mockeries and spites and clamourings 

Of ghostly voices and the clinging pall 

And chill embrace of horror, — so thy life sped 

Like to a hapless bark on haunted seas 

By vain mirage allured and mysteries 

Of fickle stars, till strength and hope be fled 

And sense is lost and captaincy is dead. 

And so they set thee from their ways apart. 
And made thee stranger at thy native hearth, 
And gave their love to thy remembered worth. 
And thy soul buried: aye, with heavy heart 
They buried it, with bitter heart and tears. 
Deep in their old love's memory, and all years 
That yet might come, to them thou wert to be 
No more but a body for sad ministry. 
No more but a body whose dead lips still tell 
In broken phrases what in life befell. 

[53] 



So wert thou living dead: and yet didst smile 

Quietly and grave as was thy wont, the while 

I gazed into thy calm gray eyes and they 

Looked back to mine the dear familiar way, 

Proud in the truth they never could betray. 

And thou didst speak, and every tone rang clear 

With the old buoyant faith and dauntless cheer 

And challenge of the evil that men fear. 

And thou didst take me by the hand and lead 

Me forth into the sunshine, giving heed 

With eerie joy to all the golden breed 

Of bright-winged bees and all the singing choir 

Of wildlings that did flutingly aspire 

Each with a sweeter note to pierce a heaven higher. 

"Here's truth," so thou didst say. "See! sorrow's true!- 

"The wee dead bird : I found it by the way 

"With all its pretty feathers laid astray. 

"You gave them to me once; now I to you 

"Give truth with sorrow," — smiling, thou didst say. 

Thou didst not know that thou wert kinder then — 
More bitter kind — than ever thou hadst been 
While yet we walked the accustomed ways of men. 
Thou didst not know, — but, oh, I saw at last 
Confession of the love and pain o'erpast, 
All the strange anguish the Great Coroplast 
Had set within thy soul to lead thee hence 
From the dull prisoning of mortal sense: 
I saw thy anguish and its recompense! 

[54] 



THE CORN 



The swoon of dying winter held the North 

Calm and recumbent in illimitable white . . . 

South breathed anew: 

Her raw sweet winds awoke, 

And freshening broke 

The stillness of the snows, summoning forth 

Thin wraiths of vaporous dew, 

Softening the crystal and fluffing light 

North's frosty bonds . . . till all the Prairie sighed, 

And stirred, and drank, and was revivified. 

Spring came again — 

With blossoms in her eyes, 

Birds in her singing throat, — 

And from her mouth 

Blew kisses of the South 

Prescient of love and dear with life's surmise. 

Where'er she stept, 

Or delicately swept 

The sw^irl of her fragrant draperies. 

With what sweet she lent 

An answering fragrance blent 

Of apple-bloom and plum and cherry 

And scented grass and red-ripening berry . . . 

And meadow-tame or w^ild in hidden glen 

The heart of every living thing was merry. 

[55] 



And the Dawn 

Waked daily northward . . . while, as from a scroll 

Illumed and pearled 

And dappled with golden fires, 

The Sons of the Morning chanting did unroll 

Caerulean music, which the choirs 

Of Earth quick seized upon 

With emulous exultation . . . till their glees, 

Like Eastertide polyphonies. 

Swelled out through the blue-domed world . . . 

Where Spring, 

Again supernal, 

Again did sing 

Her vernal antiphon 

Of love and life and joy, and youth eternal. 

II 

Until the Great Musician doth complete 

Earth's interlude, 

Yearly renewed 

The symphonic seasons shall repeat 

To newer harmonies their olden air . . . 

With aye enriched accompaniment 

Of added instrument. 

So Spring upon the prairies, — where, 

Since first the grassy land 

Parted the waters, countless springs 

Have tuned and sung and echoed, — returning brings 

[ 56 ] 



New voices in her band : 

To cattle, bird, and bee. 

And all things vocal, and the sibilance 

Of all things green, 

And plowboys' clatter, adding the machine 

That works the will of man, and working chants 

His yearly trust that still the mystery 

Of life will be renewed, and still the corn 

From fertile Earth for him shall be reborn. 

His engines clamour, and the curving shares 
Comb to black ribbons breadths of humid soil, 
Whereto the planter bears 
The sound bright kernels. Each is sealed 
With w^arming loam; and field by field 
The farmer rests him from his hopeful toil. 
Content if earth and air and sun and rain 
Fulfill their promise of returning grain. 

So is the prelude done: 

The deepening chords 

Blend and resolve sustaining harmonies 

That bear life's motive onw^ards: 

. . . One by one 

Come fluting voices, lilting far sweet notes — 

Bird-call of mates, the low of mothering kine, 

Bleat of answering younglings, thrum and thrine 

Of sonant insects, — every sudden breeze 

Caught with song's burden, till the whole world floats 



[57] 



In wefts of melody . . . And Spring 
Birdlike hath come and birdlike taken wing. 

Ill 

June with her azures is the whole year's queen! 

And unto June is given — 

Where flung from heaven 

The sportive shadows chase 

O'er swell and swale and all the face 

Of Earth field-chequered — new royalty of green ! 

The black soil breaks, and gleaming blades, 

Jewelled with morning's dew. 

Rise up in serried ranks lanceolate, 

Like earth-born heroes splendid in war's state. 

Until the hue 

Of the spreading verdure turns 

From dun to verdant, and earth's chalice burns 

With malechites and emeralds, beryls, jades, 

And flames prismatic where the Sun, 

As on a field with victory won. 

Strikes fair his kingly accolades. 

Row upon row 

The bright stalks swell and grow 

Succulent and firm, unsheathing in long curves 

Their bladed fronds, until each hillock serves 

To mount an Indian warrior, crowned 

With feathery panache ... 

[58] 



And miles around 

The undulating prairies flash 

With swajang plumage, iridescent green 

Gorgeous to the sun as the quetzal's tropic sheen. 

And all the world is radiant . . . 

And the Emperor of the Skies, 

Through the royal blue 

Riding insouciant, 

Marshalls his bannered fields in high review, 

While each verdant squadron vies 

In homage to his glories. 

IV 

Come Night and Midsummer, and the dream 

Of fairy folk astart . . . 

The multitudinous cornfields teem 

With busybody life — the industries 

Of myriad tiny helpers whose deft art 

To man brings magic aid: 

Weavers and dyers of satins and soft silks, 

And distaff-workers whose swift spindles tease 

The w^oof of filmy wear; 

And broiderers and tasselers, and with these 

Finers of sugars, and the patient maid 

Who with each sundown milks 

Dews from the burdened air 

For gog-eyed alchemists to fuse 

From lambent liquors into honeyed brews. 

[59] 



Aloft 

The heavens are soft with stars, and soft 

Below 

Are the happy voices of the hidden folk 

That musically flow 

Amid the soughing corn: 

Rufflings and twitterings, chucklings, laughters, sighs 

Faint with sweet longing, and a sudden thorn 

Of strident sound, from some batrachian woke 

To vocal zeal, and far the call 

Of tender doves 

Summoning their loves 

Home to the nesting — all 

The fruitful blessedness of night, 

Suspirious with mating and delight. 

The pollens fall. 

And the little mothers of the fields 

Ply their quick needles 

On fabrics delicate 

That anticipate 

The hooded cribs and cradles 

That will be the bields 

Of budding kernels — many-wrapt 

Like blest bambinos soft enlapt 

By guardian saints . . . 

And each with touch ethereal paints 

Pale haloes, dreaming of the birth 

Miraculous, and the Sun's 



[60] 



Daily resurrections 

Of shining life from life-renewing Earth. 

So are the fields waxed fruitful . . . And so man 
Rises with the morning, contentedly to scan 
The burgeoning stalks, in each forming head 
Foreseeing new abundance of life's bread. 

V 

There is a burning tide of summer noon 

When all the cornlands quiver in suspense 

Of life or death . . . 

Day dewless breaks, intense 

The hot hours climb relentless zones; 

Earth's breath, 

In feverous monotones, 

Comes dry and husky, and mercilessly laps 

From every growing thing its vital saps. 

The flowers die silently, and soon; 

And like fast-growing hairs the grasses wither. 

While the leaves, trembling and palsied, curl and cringe 

From the unpitying beat 

Of noonday heat . . . 

There is no natural sound 

Save the shrill impinge 

Of katydids and locusts, and the blither 

Of thirsty things that huddle round 

The warping troughs, 

[61] 



And the coughs 

Of slavey horses, trundling their loads 

Down dusty miles of undeviating roads. 

. . . Here at length 
Challenged is the strength 
Of all the fields . . . 

The thick stalks harden, and the blades 

Arch proudly, casting defiant shades 

Where each desperate root 

Sucks at its fountains ... So 

The struggle tautens; until drooping yields 

Many a warrior, and many a fair field owns 

The Victor Sun, and many a row, 

Death-harvested, rests mute 

Save for faint raspings, as of long-bleached bones 

Blown by the winds about some gibbet's foot. 

. , . Man 

Mumbling pagan prayers to gods of rain, 
Wan-eyed doth scan 
The empty heaven . . . 

No bigger than his hand 

Is the sign of his salvation ! . . . 

And all the land 

Is darkened, all creation 

Buoyed with wet winds, and once again — 

The round horizon riven 

With Jovian leven — 

[62] 



The fields delirious greet 
Delirium of rain . . . 
And once again 
With covenant of bread 
Man's heart is comforted. 



VI 



How many years, 

Millenially counted, hath the maize 

Sprouted and budded and fruited kernelled ears 

Since first the sage Indian broke the sod 

With heavy-hafted stone 

Or shoulder-bone 

Of ox-like beast, and through long patient days, 

Singing of his god, 

From tropic grasses coaxed the colored grains 

Sacred to Earth's Quarters . . . for with them 

Earth should be bread-seeded, and broad plains 

Seasonally enroyalled with bright diadem! 

First, a slender grass; and then a rod, 

A staff of life, a house of sustenance! 

And through the years, with ceremonial state 

And rites deliberate. 

Austral and boreal was borne the holy word 

To the nations of the Red Man . . . 

Until — Cuzco and Nazca, Palenque, Mayapan 

The altars smoked with copal and the fanes 

With droning chants 

Of plumed hierophants 

[63] 



Echoed the mystery of that puissant Lord 

Who found men naked, gave them law and bread, 

Died, and was buried, and raised Him from the dead 

Incarnate in the sun-engloried corn 

That yearly should expire and yearly be reborn. 

Long since have their songs been still. 

And long since their reverent 

And priestly rites in dusty tombs been locked . . . 

Beneath the Sun 

The Red Man's race is run, 

And all his subtle skill 

Is vanished . . . Yet hath he bequeathed 

Richly to all men the sheathed 

Ear of ripened maize, his testament 

To brothers all — white, black, and brown, — - who keep 

Faith with the fields, and in the shocked 

Spoils of the harvest freely reap 

The toils of lives long spent. 

VII 

Autumn comes on serene — 

As after battle riot 

The inevitable quiet 

And count of the day's accomplishment. 

Clean dawns and musky twilights . . . the wind blows 

Reminiscently, and gustily dies away ... 

And an Indian haze 

Hallows all the days 

[64] 



With summer's afterglows . . . 

And everywhere 

The cool changing air 

Is grateful with the scent 

Of ripening orchards and of curing hay. 

Gone is the springtime green 

From the broad fields, which saffrons, russets, browns 
Hue with autochthonous splendors — as if brushed 
By dark-skinned artists, painting with the crushed 
Juices of berries laid on with feather-downs. 

Broken and scarred and torn, 

With many a pennant shorn 

Close to the standard, the sturdy stalks 

Keep their stiff rows, studded with great ears 

Ripe for the shuckster . . . while the hawks — 

Like airy vessels which the pilot steers 

In flawless circles — through the placid sky 

Sail placidly. 

So they await — 

In proud after-state 

Of tattered and trophied heroes — 

The early frost that crisps 

The kernels, and crinkles the sheer husks, 

And signs its fragile artistry with wisps 

Of crystal pencilings . . . whilst along the furrows. 

Through long autumn dusks. 

The cautious night-wind subtle counsel lisps ... 



[65] 



The creaking wagons, boarded high and bowed 

With fullness of the yellow heaped load, 

Roll homeward, and the cribs 

With the new plenty bulge their scantling ribs, 

While the tired harvesters, first mindful of their teams, 

Betake them to their slumbers and their dreams. 

VIII 

So Nature and Man allied 

Win Man his bread ■ — 

Bread, heaven-sent with life! . . . and pride 

Of his strong right arm, and pride 

Of high heart beating high 

For all his hand hath done beneath the eye 

Of the unchanging firmament. He is fed 

In body, spirit, nation, by the yields 

Of each relenting year; 

And all his hours 

Are gleanings from his fields, 

And all his powers 

Of limb and eye and ear, 

His subtleties 

Of wit, are the corn's annuities. 

Throughout the Moons, 

Seedtime to harvest, hath his thought 

Yearned to his fields, and sought 

With new solicitude 

Daily to read the runes 

[66] 



Of dews or drought prophetic . . . while his mood, 
Foreboding with the eve, fair with auspicious morn, 
Faded or freshened with the changing corn. 

His corn ! . . . but not his alone 

By whom the seed was sown. 

The harvest garnered . . . Mine 

It is, mine also, mine and thine, 

And all men's, — musing, so he knew, — 

Who build strong habitations, hew 

Iron from the hills, succor bear 

On the salt seas, or with their bodies rear 

A rampart for the laws 

Of freemen . . . For, behold ! of men 

Who live and men who die, there is one cause: 

That men 

May live again. 

Yea, live! and live anew! 

In all Earth's nations purified 

Of blood and lust and arrogance and hate, 

And the hag's distempered brood that ride 

Our days with insolence, and with rue 

Fill penitential nights . . . Till transubstantiate 

In his own toil-won bread, 

His flesh replenished 

Through the vicarious years, 

His heart with tears 

Transfused, — Man shall be reborn 

In the high and holy sacrament of the corn! 

[67] 



PIONEERS! 

Pioneers, O Pioneers! 
Bring the wagon, yoke the steers. 
Cast behind all doubts and fears! 
Forward, through the waiting years! 

Pioneers, O Pioneers! 

'Tis your toil shall break the road ; 
'Tis your backs shall bear the load; 
'Tis your souls must feel the goad! 

Where ye sow shall others reap; 
Others laugh where ye must weep ; 
But your deathless souls shall keep 
Vigil through the waiting years, 
Pioneers, O Pioneers! 

Snap ! Crack ! 

Thud and thwack! 
'Tis the chanty of the plains — 

Never, never, turn we back! 
O'er the trails that rise and dip, 
To the whistling of the whip 
And the clanking of the chains — 

Snap ! Crack ! 

Thud and thwack! 
Sing the chanty of the Plains — 

Never, never, turn we back! 



[68] 



THE FOUR CONTINENTS 



Thou night-faced Goddess, 

Blazoned with old stars and zoned with monsters,- 

Af rica ! 
Thou Cow full-uddered, Earth's fruitful wife, 
Neith, heavy-breasted, 
Nutrient with life 
And fecund with red death: 
The hot breath of the desert in thee stirs 
And the hot breath 

Of sultry forests, where the deep drums boom 
And ebon priests 
Their black gorged feasts 
Celebrate, crouching to bless 
Horned and beaked and crested 
Gods out of Egypt . . . 

Africa, full-lipped 
And carnal, — rich 

With apes and ivory and the plumes of Punt 
And mottled spoil of pelts, where nightly hunt 
Maned lions, — 

Africa ! 
Through mute and fated aions 
Beast-yoked and whipt 

'Neath the slaver's lash, — thou World Witch ! 
Luxurious as is Nilus' ancient stream 
Is thy dread dream, 

[69] 



Which gaudy moves athwart thy timeless dusk 
Like vivid frescoes from the tomb 
Of some old dusty Pharaoh, dead 
And vanished. 

II 

Jewels are thine eyes, 

O Asia! 
Dark jewels are thine eyes, 
And ivory sleek 

Are throat and brow and the smooth oval cheek, 
With flush of lives forgotten deep imbrowned! 
Each scented tress is bound 

With burnished gold and golden thou art crowned 
The Crescent Queen — 
Ashtoreth of the Skies — 
Immutable, serene, 

O Asia! 

Dark jewels are thine eyes, 

And in them gleam 

The smouldering centuries. 

Like phosphors on the dusky stream 

Of Ocean, or like ghosts 

Of myriad tent-fires kindled by thine hosts 

On hill and steppe and desert 'mid that Night 

Which is thy haunted Past! 

Dark jewels are thine eyes. 



[70] 



Whose sombre light, 
As lights of javelins battle-cast, 
Dartleth thy dread divinity afar. 
Till thou dost rule — 

Mother of Gods and Men, Mother of War, — 
O'er all things passionate and all things cruel 
And all things princely that thy womb hath bred 
In living soul and soul of dead, 
O Asia! 

Ill 

Europe ! 
Valkyr of men's lands. 
Winged war-maiden, cuirassed, helmed. 
Whose unappeased hands. 
Wielding the broad glave 
O'er sullen fortress-keeps 
And the tumbled heaps 

Of fallen citadels, did hew historic centuries 
And redly clave 
Th' ensanguined paths of glory! 

Empress, many-realmed, — 
The steel of thy flashing eyes 
Shone o'er Acropolis; thou wert the wise 
Maid of the marbled Parthenon ; 
Thine was the Empery 
Which lifted high the Law, weighed 
With balanced scale, and gave 
Justice with tempered blade: 

[71] 



Athens and Rome thou wert, and she, 
The still-faced one 

Holy o'er many an altar, to whom was born 
The Son Redemptive. . . 

Europe ! 
In thee do live 

War, Wisdom, Law and Love: thou dost make thine 
The meted lands, old Ocean's keel-carved brine, 
And all the deeps of sundered skies 
Whereunto thou dost rise 
A bright Archangel, loud with brazen horn 
Throughout Earth's quarters thundering thy Morn! 

IV 

Woman, precious with new life, — 

America ! 
Sired by shining Aether thou, and sprung 
As Aphrodite from parturient seas, 
In thee commingling Love and Strife, 
Hope's prismatic fire 
And the clear stream of Truth 
New-founted, where glorious in naked youth. 
Flower-flushed and perfect thou dost rise 
Up from the foam of ages, spirit-like to ride 
Earth's glamorous shell. 
And in new spendor spell 
A world's resurgent destinies! 



[72] 



America ! 
Divinest bride 

Of time, to whom are given 
Orient and Occident, which in thee conspire, 
Bright-veined through 
With every living hue 
Of sea and earth and heaven ! . . . 
The old light of the East, the ruddying West, 
The bannered zones 
Of North and South enarch thee, — 
Where lightly thou dost rest 
Like as the Rainbow in veil'd loveliness to be 
The mirror of man's past, the prophecy 
Of high unbuilded thrones 
Yet to illume that day — 
Forever young — 
Where Beauty beareth sway! 



[73] 



DIES IRAE 



Lord, new-come in battle-thunder 
Where the world is rent asunder 
And the lives of men bend under 

Burden of thine ancient ire: 
By thy wrath are tribes o'ertaken, 
Kings are fallen, nations shaken, — 
Let us not be now forsaken, 

Though our trial be by fire! 

Hark, thy trumpet-blare is ringing 
Loud with brazen-throated singing, 
To all lands the dread word bringing,— 

Wake to war, ye sons of men! 
Rise, and be ye Right's defender, 
In your soul be no surrender. 
Till the Lord shall come in splendor 

And his Justice reign again ! 

Lord, the ways that men are bidden 

By thy wisdom oft are hidden 

Till thy bladed wrath hath chidden 

Culprits at thy Judgment Throne 
In this hour of their assembling, 
Lo, they come in fear and trembling, 
Naked now of all dissembling, 

On thine altars to atone! 



[74] 



Judge of every age and nation, 
Lord and Author of creation, 
Thou alone canst bring salvation, 

Thou alone canst give us peace! 
Whom thou lovest thou dost chasten : 
In our souls thine iron fasten, — 
Then in mercy hasten, hasten, 

The great day of our release ! 

II 

The Flag 

Thou Flag of my Country — 
Thou banner of my native land — ' 
Thou Stars and Stripes of mine America — 
Hail, hail, hail ! Forever, hail ! 

I behold thee, and my heart leaps high, 

Greeting thy rushing waves with answering wave 

Of blood resurgent, till my body rings 

With the clear hymn of liberty and thee, 

Flag, flag of my country! 

Conceived thou wert in peril. 

Painted in hour of war, 

And thy reddened stripes furrow thy field of white 

As war's red share furrows the white of peace, 

Telling what men have dared and done for liberty! 

Conceived thou wert in peril, and in hope, 

[75] 



And all thy blue — star-spangled like the skies — 

Sings of the watches of the night 

That men have kept in love of thee, 

In love of thee and of the emulous stars 

Which send hope's answer back from heaven ! 

Concord and Trenton, Orleans and Gettysburg, 

How many fields have seen thy tattered folds 

Wave the last triumph to the eyes of men 

Who sang their death-song to thee! 

On how many seas 

Have tall ships borne thee at the peak 

Mid thundering guns and wild careen 

Of fire less ruddy than men's fiery hearts! 

Thou Flag of my Country, 

Men have died for thee! 

With cheers on their lips and gladness in their souls, 

With faith in thee and me! 

O save me to thee! 

Be thou mine and my country's prayer — 

Into my life let thy bright image burn 

Like purifying flame, like tempering steel, 

Like heaven's night, star-glorious! 

Make thou my spirit clean. 

Clean in the love of liberty and thee, 

Uncleft in truth and loyalty! 

Let thine ensanguined stripes — 

Like th' ensanguined stripes on Christ's white body — 

[76] 



Bid me be noble ever! 

Let all the watching stars 

Of vigilant heaven shine 

From thy clear blue on me, and in me find 

Such constancy to thee as heaven's is 

In all her constant stars! 

O Flag of my Country, 

Be for me the purge that shall bear far — 

Yea, in my blood if need be — 

All deed, all thought, all love, 

That measures not thine honor and thy troth ! 

Make thou of me a blade of strength, 

A fortress stone, a staff 

To raise thee, raise thee, ever! 

Let not nobility 

Perish from America! 

Flag, Flag of my Country! 



Ill 



The Trenches 

In weltering furrows digged into the breast 

Of Earth who gave them life, wretchedly they die; 

Their broken bodies, like some monstrous plasm. 

In horrid suffocation heave and sink. 

Whilst th' innumerable moan of lips athirst 

Swells and subsides and whiningly is stilled. 

Dust is to sodden dust, and earth to earth, 

[77] 



And bone and flesh and blood — the living blood 

That throbbed and stung and sang thro' the quickened 

veins 
Of Heaven-facing men — all, all is to the earth ! 
Ah, they w^ere tall, and upright to the blue, 
Who now lie huddled, flat, vermicular, 
Coil in bloody coil, glued by their own flesh 
And pinned by bones into the very wounds 
Themselves have struck on Earth's too fruitful bosom! 

Dust is to sodden dust, and earth to earth, 

And bone and flesh and blood — and here's a hand, 

A man's right hand, now nerveless and relaxed: 

What nice articulation, what device, 

What precious beauty in this subtle tool 

Which Nature fashions for our human work! 

Aye, here's the hand : its cunning is forgot, — 

And they who prized it, they shall never know 

Its dear caress, nor ever at their need 

Feel the proud strength of this dissevered hand. 

Bone, flesh, and blood, — men's broken bodies are 

The carrion that fouls the famished cheek 

Of War, hot-bellied, where noisomely she feeds 

On bone and flesh and blood, whilst her grisly rout 

Of vampire Hates bestride a world hag-ridden. 

I hear the roar of battle as in a dream 
Whose echoing anguish shrieks and sobs and dies 
Dim-resonant of Earth's parturient pains, 
And thro' the fateful murk I seem to see 

[78] 



A gaunt and shadowy Scythesman where he mows 

His red death's harvest, whilst behind him throng 

His ghastly gleaners with their recking sheaves. 

I hear the roar of battle as in a dream, 

But ever when the night and silence fall 

Louder than war I hear the puny cry 

Of the starveling gnawing at the shrunken breast 

To drain a mother's poisoned agony, — 

And thro' the horror and the dark I see 

The grinning face of Moloch with the dread 

Holocaust of children burning in his brass. 

Oh, men have died before and babes have died, 

As men and babes are dying, and will die 

Whilst War and Famine scourge our mortal race. 

Yes, men have died before, and again will die, 

As now. Tomorrow w^e shall all be dead — 

An Earth's tomorrow: and our Earth will turn 

A gray and barren aspect to the Sun 

Until her lagging revolutions cease. 

And cosmic twilight fades to cosmic night. 

Oh, men have died before, as men now die. 

And Earth is made their tomb, and on her breast, 

Weathering the years, emerge the whitened bones 

Strew^n from the dusty trenches of old wars. 

Dimly to gleam to the reveries of the stars 

Through the chill silence of eternity. 

Lord God, dost thou but see th' eternal spheres 
As lustrous pearls in thine etheric Deep? 
Enamoured of their beauty, dost forget 

[79] 



Each pearl's a cicatrice of olden pain? 

Hast thou no bladed vision that shall stab 

Into the ruddied heart of life, and there 

Read thee compassion of its agony? 

The sin of Cain is on us: age after age 

We men do turn our gaze back to the gates 

Where the grim angel bares his sheathless sword 

Before thy Paradise; and hope is slain. 

And flagellant hate is born, and suppliant souls 

Drive hellwards, — aye, where men do murder men. 

Lord God, who keepest thy revengeful years. 

In all thy hand is there no salve for sin? 

IV 

Armistice Day Psalm 

Sing, O ye Peoples! Rejoice, O ye Nations! 
Shout, ye Assemblies of Freemen I 

For the princes of oppression are overthrown, 

And the kings who ruled with iron are cast down! 

Broken are their swords. 

Into the dust their thrones are crumbled, 

As bonds of penitence are their crowns become, 

And their pomps as thorns of remembrance! 

The whiteness of the Truth hath laid them bare; 

The blade of the Right hath cleft them, head and chine; 

In the balances of Justice they are weighed and found 

wanting : 
They are as blown chaff forever! 

[80] 



Sing, O ye Peoples! Rejoice, O ye Nations! 
Shout, ye Assemblies of Freemen ! 

Verily, I have beheld a vision : 

A great light and a glory have I beheld ! 

I have beheld a splendor of banners, 

And a shining of the arches of joy, 

Where the Nations exult, 

Where the Sons of Freemen dance. 

Because of their salvation ! 

Out of the East come horsemen riding. 

Out of the West come horsemen riding. 

Whose chargers are the glories of heaven. 

Whose apparel is the magnificence of the morning! 

Lo, the Dawn hath burst open the Night! 

Lo, the Morn hath dissolved Night with laughters! 

With flowers are the Nations adorned ; 

With drumiS and with timbrels do the peoples dance; 

And their circle is one and unbroken. 

And their spirit is proud and exultant! 

For the Horsemen of Heaven are riding, 

Out of the East to proclaim it, 

Out of the West to proclaim it, — 
''There is Peace upon Earth! 
"There is Peace upon Earth! 
"And triumph that is triumph of Righteousness!" 

Sing, O ye Peoples! Rejoice, O ye Nations! 
Shout, ye Assemblies of Freemen! 

[81] 



TO FRAxNCE IN HER ANGUISH 

Thy summer days will come again 

With their celestial blue, 
And nights that brim with misty rain, 

Dawns crystal with the dew. 
Where quivering poplars limn thy plain 

With quiet avenue. 

Peace shall be thine, O France, once more, 
Peace shall be thine, O France, la belle! 

And mantle of renewing green 

Shall cover seam and scar of war, 

And thou shalt be serene, serene. 
Above thy buried Hell. 

Above the bones of men that died 

In battle, face to face; 
And some were sons and thy heart's pride, 

And some an hated race; 
And now their bones lie side by side 

And bitterly embrace. 

Thy sunny days will come again, 

Dawns with unsullied dew; 
And thy fair earth will show no stain 

To dim the lovely view, 
Where quivering poplars limn thy plain 

With rooted avenue. 



[82] 



BALLADE 

Tell me, where are the dames of yore? 
Proud Ermengarde and the sainted Joan, 
And Genevieve by the moonlit shore 
O'er the city keeping her watch alone? 
Princess and Saint and sweet mignonne, 
In robe of gris, in robe of vair, — 
Tell me, where is their beauty blown ? 
**To form the soul of Yvctte Guilbert !" 

Tell me, and are the loves no more 
That minstrels sang and maids bemoan? 
Of fair Iseut, of pale Blancheflor, 
Of Heloise mid the cloister's stone 
Learning to pray and by prayer atone, 
Of Beatrice and her poet fere, — 
Tell me, where are the old loves flown? 
"Home to the heart of Yvette Guilbert!" 

Tell me, where is the France of yore? 
Roland, Bayard ! is France best known 
In heart that's true to its knightly core, 
Where chivalry hath brightest shone? 
Or known in the splendour of Louis's throne, 
In the lusty call of Chantecler, 
Or in field of white with lilies sown? 
"The soul of France is Yvette Guilbert!" 



[83] 



Where glory and bright fame are known, 
High courtesy in land soe'er, 
There France is found, who finds her own 
In the singing soul of Yvette Guilbert! 



CHANSON D'AUTOMNE 

(From the French of Paul Verlaine) 

Long-lingering moan 
Like violin tone 

Of daily autumnal, 
Woundeth my soul 
With languorous dole 

Monotonal. 

In frail complaint 
Far bells ring faint, 

Their vigil keeping ; 
And I recall 
Gone years, and fall 

A-weeping. 

Ill winds drift by, 
And with them I 

Unguided, all on 
Mine own gray grief 
Drift like a leaf 

Dead-fallen. 



[84] 



WOMEN OF EURIPIDES 

I 

Women of Euripides, 

Ye long dead, mortals immortal, 

Strangely ye pass 

Like troubled shadows in a glass, 

Like fateful mysteries 

Divined in crystal . . . 

Strangely our hearts are wrung 

By the blurring word and half-obliterate tongue 

Of your passion-broken oracles, — 

Choruses long sung, 

Poignant and redeless as the plaint 

Of Delphic voices lingering faint . . . 

With pity and with fear 

Strangely ye purify our ways, 

Strangely ye cere 

With tears compassionate our stained days, 

Where still in blind theophany 

The deathless gods tread redly. 



[85] 



II 

Alcestis museth, mute: 

The same dear golden Sun whereto 37estreen I bade farewell ? 

Oh, can it be 

Such joy is meant for me? 
Or doth my haunted spirit yet endure its taunting Hell, 

With pallid dream, remembering? . . . 

How can the rosy glowing morn, the tenderness of eve 

Be mine again? 

After the shameful pain 
Of death's dank habitation and foul clutch that me did reave 

From every fair and living thing? . . . 

Dimly I hear men's utterance, perturbed as of yore 

With fear and hope . . . 

Oh, if sealed tombs do ope 
And give again their dead to walk, can the returned be more 

Than staled and charnelled flesh o'er-painted ? 

My King doth lift the veil ! Upon me chill his breath is 
warm! 

Unto his gaze 

Mine eyes I cannot raise ! . . . 
Oh, never can he gather to his love this empty form! 

This body ravished, death-tainted . . . 



[86] 



Ill 

Electra 

Black are her eyes, and the thin straight brows 

Above them black, — 

Like to a king's, moody with thought of battle; 

Like to a king's, remiembering 

The curse upon his house. 

Electra, royal tall. 

Garbed as a thrall, the olla on her head 

Borne as an high-plumed helm o'er his, long dead : 

Nor maid, nor wife, nor woman, — princess all, 

And Agamemnon's daughter! 

Who else could know what ruse 
Should draw an evil mother, 
Hating and hated, helpless to refuse 
The new-born w^ailing 
Of fated Atreid blood? 

Whose heart but woman's could know, and who use 
Save a king's daughter — and daughter of such king 
As could his own blood slaughter 
To god's dark will, — save she whose womanhood 
Is given as a city unto sack? 



[87] 



IV 

Prayeih Phaedra : 

Goddess, who burnest me 

In the swift flame of thee, 

Prone in thine altar's implacable fire, — 

Goddess, who spurnest me 
Crying the name of thee, — 
Goddess, who breakest thine urn of desire 

O'er this white body mine 
Pearled with thy dews divine, 
Faint from the scourge of thy honeyed caress, 

Fevered with ruddy wine 
Drawn from the bruised vine, — 
Goddess, whose gift cometh never to bless! 

Oh, could my pain atone 
Ere the last dart be thrown! 
Tresses of terror be loosed from my head ! 

Cleft be the burning zone! 
Left but an heart of stone — 
Heart of me marble, heart of me dead ! 



[88] 



.;iil 



V 

Medea in Attica 

Before her grot, 

Whose rocky portals shimmer hot 

In the quenchless sun, 

Sits old Medea, thinking . . . 

As some old eagle, with his last flight done, 

Perches with mufiied plumage on his crag 

And stares unblinking 

At the still unconquered sun, 

His soul unconquered still, — 

While far beneath him in the drowsy glade, 

Where lazily the leafy shadows lag. 

Soft doves do coo and bill 

Mid murmurous melody. 

Till all the fragrant shade 

Is laved in love's antiphony: 

He, unafraid. 

Starves, gloating o'er his ancient kill. 



[89] 



THE VENGEANCE OF WOMEN 

Pain we give to women, we, 

When our lives begin to be : 

Nights of sorrow, days of gloom, 

Heaviness within the womb; 

Pang of promise, pang of dearth. 

The convulsive throe of birth; 

Weariness of nourishing 

When to aching breast we cling; 

Pain we give them day by day 

As we steal their lives away, 

Pain we give them week by week — 

And pain is the vengeance that they wreak. 

There was Helen, she of Troy, 

Sparta's glory. Oh, the joy 

To behold her lithe and trim, 

To behold her upright, slim, 

Agile, fragile, burning white 

Like an altar flame at night 

Stood before a goddess dim. 

There were languors in her eye 

That could summon men to die. 

Rose and shell of her finger-tips 

Thrilling lightnings — Zeus divine 

Was her father ! — red her lips 

As a Bacchante's mad with wine . . . 

What to her if heroes died 

Who was aye a victor's bride? 

[90] 



Supple, subtle, glorious, Greek! — 
Pain is the vengeance that they wreak. 

There was the woman Jezebel, 

Queen of a king of Israel, 

And she ruled him by the might 

Of a beauty dark as night, 

Of a beauty like night skies 

Whence her eyes shone jewel-wise 

Terrible in smile or frown. 

Sate her hair in dusky crown, 

Plait on plait and fold on fold 

Bound with bands of shining gold. 

And her brow was a citadel 

Did the hooked-nosed warriors quell 

Where they bowed them down and down, 

While blood of priest and blood of prophet 

Reddened in the vale of Tophet . . . 

Jezebel is seated high — 

Sweet it is to watch men die. 

Priest and prophet, fat and sleek ! — 

Pain is the vengeance women wreak. 

There was the damsel Ildico, 
Bright as a Valkyr, white as snow. 
And her eyes were the hue of steel 
Flashing where the Berserks reel. 
And her eyes were banners bright 
Guiding warriors to the fight! 



[91] 



Asia never yet could know 

The high soul of Ildico, 

Nor could read in her still face 

How she came of Valkyr race: 

In the tent of Atli here, 

Oh, it is a kingly cheer! 

But what sound above the din 

Like a wind so shrill and thin? 

Could man dream that soul of king 

Were this wretched bleating thing? 

Ildico stands tall within 

And her eyes are banners bright 

Shining challenge through the night: 

Let him come who will to seek ! — 

Pain is the vengeance that they wreak. 

There was a matron grave and sage, 

She had a daughter of woman's age 

Whom never and never in time nor tide 

Was beauty that could stand beside: 

For in her body's grace she wore 

A garment of supernal spell, 

And on her face high sign she bore 

Of the hush that o'er Heaven fell 

In awe of the wonder of body and mind 

When God bethought Him of womankind . . . 

Long the matron sage and grave 

Gazed into the eyes that gave 

Such untroubled sweetness back: 



[92] 



"Daughter, daughter, I see wrack, 
"Bitter, bitter wrack and woe 
"Many a mortal man shall know 
"When he looks these eyes within. 
"So shall men atone men's sin." 
And the maiden wondering 
Saw with eyes all pitying 
Into a future hurt and dim 
Dartling distant sudden fears; 
And there welled from pity's brim 
All unbidden the quick tears, 
Till the petal of her cheek 
Trembled with the dew of ruth. 
But the matron spake dark truth : 
"Pain they give us day by day, 
"Pain with pain they shall repay, 
"Yea, though pity dew the cheek, 
"Pain is the vengeance women wreak," 

God, it is a pain most dear! 
And I clasp it near and near 
As the Spartan boy who locks 
To his breast the gnawing fox. 



[93] 



THE WITCH O' WOMEN 

They were black bare trunks and twisted 
With the sunset fire between: 

Bound his feet leaves dead and sodden — 
But the sun stare in his een! 

She was all of light and laughter — 
Fate and Fancy hight her steeds: 
"Who would wed the Witch o' Women, 
Let him follow where she leads!" 

Then his ears grew deaf with hearing, 
And his een grew blind with sight: 

Who would wed the Witch o' Women, 
He must follow fast her flight. 

**Hold ye. Brother, red the wine is — 

Folly hastes when comrades dine!" 
Who would wed the Witch o' Women, 
He hath drunk a ruddy wine. 

And his ears hear but her singing, 
And he sees but in her light: 

Who would wed the Witch o' Women, 
Wholly must he be her wight. 



[95] 



She was all of light and laughter — 
Fate and Fancy gallop fast 

When the sun is nigh his setting 

And the black wood is o'erpast. 

She hath vanished in the sunset — 
Follow moan and chill of night: 

Who would wed the Witch o' Women, 
Worth him woe, the foolish wight! 



THE ISLE OF THE BLEST 

I saw an Island shining bright 

Far in the deeps of a midnight sea, 
And o'er it hung a curtained light, 

A sheeted flame of mystery: 
The shud'ring Heaven gasped in pain 
Compassionate of the writhing main. 

Frail barques were crowding through the seas, 
And every bench was freighted low 

With fear-eyed Hopes and Charities 

White-faced, — and tossing to and fro 

Were empty masts, like naked swords 

Or fingers clutching Heavenwards. 



[94 1 



THE HUNTSMAN 

A whiteness in the misty night, 

A whiteness in the mist and rain, 

And they who saw did blanch affright 
Unknowing 'twas a soul in pain : 
I followed through the rain. 

A sobbing through the misty night, 

A sobbing through the mist and rain, 

And they who heard ran mad affright 
Unheeding all its bitter plain : 
I followed through the night. 

It fled me over hill and hill, 

It fled me through the deathly place, 
It struggled with despairing skill 

If but to win a little space; 

I followed it apace. 

I heard it sobbing through the rain, 
I heard its bitter, bitter woe; 

I knew it was a soul in pain 

And yet I would not let it go, 
But followed it amain. 

It might not win a little space. 

Where'er it fled, below, above, — 

Through rain and mist and deathly place 
I followed it with scourging love 
Relentlessly apace. 

[96] 



A whiteness in the misty night, 

A whiteness in the mist and rain; 

It is a soul in hopeless flight, 

And all its utterance is pain : 
I follow through the rain. 



LONE WINDS THAT BLOW 

Lone winds that wander o'er the plain, 

Lone winds that blow amid the mist and rain 

Moaning your desolation and your pain — 

Lone winds that blow! 

Ah, whither do ye go, 

Lone winds that blow, lone winds that blow ? . . . 

Lone winds that linger w^here the flowers have bloomed 

and gone. 
Lone winds that lift the fringes of the dawn . . . 
Blow! Through the w^asting seasons on! 
Blow! Where lie them low, where ghostly lie them low 
Whose souls have bloomed and gone! . . , 

Brave souls still barkening where ye blow . . . 

Oh, thither, thither go! 

Lone winds, blow on ! 

Lift ye the fringes of their dawn 

Aglow ! 



[97] 



THE TWAINING 

where have ye gone, my true, true love? 

O where have ye gone, my sweet? 

1 lay me down with thee beside,— 

O where have ye gone so fleet? 
I lay me down, and woe betide, 
Forleft ye me to grete! 

"O far I have gone, my lover leal, 
O far I have gone from thee, 

To a dim lone land by a dim lone deep, 
Wan winds its people be. 

And slim lights gleam where the lanterns keep 
Their watch by the misty sea." 

O may I not follow, my true, true love? 

O may I not follow thee, lief? 
Mine ears are sad with the sound of rain, 

My heart is heavy with grief, 
Mine eyes are dark that were so fain 

Of the day that was so brief! 

'*0 how shall ye follow, my lover leal? 

O how shall ye follow me? 
For the way that I came I know it not 

Save steep was the fearsome sea; 
The way that I came I have forgot, 

And the waves ye cannot dree." 



[98] 



O wake me, O wake me, my true, true love! 

Mine eyes are blinded with sleep. 
And dim and dim thy voice I hear 

Across the dim lone deep; 
My heart is chill with heavy fear 

And the grief it may not keep! 

'I cannot awake thee, my lover leal, 

Nor ease thy heavy heart, 
For the slim lights beckon me over the waste, 

The wan winds bid me start; 
And thou must abide and I must haste. 

And body and soul must part." 



IN MORTE VITA 

Rose abloom mid the early snows. 
Blush of red upon the white: 
Fantasy of Autumn shows 
Rose abloom mid the early snows. 
Do Life and Death herein disclose 
How they twain in one unite? 
Rose abloom mid the early snows. 
Blush of red upon the white. 



[99] 



ALL HALLOWS EVE 

All Hallows eve is a hoyden eve — 

Winds of November whistling — 
Some ghosts be honest, some must thieve: 
None saith, 'An it please,' or *By your leave/ 
All Hallows eve. 

Shrewd stars peer out until the skies 

Are like a sieve that's pricked with eyes — 

Winds of November whistling, — 
Some folks be bold, some keep their beds, 
Taut coverlets about their heads: 
Sooty the night and flecked and flawed 
With bottle-greens and smouldering reds — 

Winds of November whistling, — 
Some folk be brave and some be awed 
When all the Hallows are abroad. 

Dry gusts amid the crusty sheaves, 
Topsy-turve of crinkling leaves — 

Winds of November whistling, — 
When husky voices are o'erheard 
Twisting thoughts in ghostly eddy. 
Hist eagerly each whispered word — 

Winds of November whistling, — 
Some souls be weak and some be steady; 
Autumn liquor 's strong and heady,— 
'Tis the dead that are most ready. 



[100] 



All Hallows eve is a hoyden eve — 

Winds of November luhistling, — 
Some ghosts be merry, some must grieve; 
For him that 's sinned there 's no reprieve 
All Hallows eve. 



PRAIRIE REVERY 

Wisps of w^ind a-whispering 
Husky secrets through the grass . 

Old man, old man monotone, 
Is it you do pass, 
Chuckling, mumbling, whimpering 
To yourself all day? 

Old man, old man monotone, 
Solitary, gray, 

Is it yours, the whistling drone? 
You who falter by alone, 
Shuffling as you pass? 

Wisps of wind a-w^hispering 
Husky secrets through the grass . 



[101] 



THE KNOWING DEAD 

They say the dead love coffins fine 
Because they see and see and see 
Through dark velour and oak and pine 
As pall and wood were crystalline 
Unto their eyeless visionry, — 
Because they see and know full well 
That they forevermore must dwell 
In tombed house, in coffined bed, — 
They know it well though they be dead. 

They say the dead love o'er their bones 
Tall monuments and carven stones, 
Because they see and see and see 
With eyeless vision piercingly 
Through moldy earth as we through sky,- 
Because they know though deep they lie 
Just what is writ high overhead 
And how each reads who passes by, — 
They know it well though they be dead. 

And oh, they know they cannot change 
Nor coffin nor tall carven stone 
Nor what be writ if it be strange 
Unto the truth which they alone 
Do see and see and see and see 
With piercing eyeless visionry, — 
And every idle word that 's said 
By those who pass high overhead. 
They know it helplessly, though dead. 

[ 102 ] 



And each one knows if any other 
Hath a finer tomb than he, 
And each one hates his better brother 
For each one knows how helplessly 
He yet must lie in this one bed, — 
And in each breast w^rithes Jealousy, 
And Envy gnaws and gna\\'S and gnaws 
Into each heart with needly jaws, — 
One is so helpless lying dead ! 

And so the dead love coffins fine 
And rich velour for shroud and pall. 
And balm of myrrh and honeyed wine 
And carven marbles white and tall 
To stand unblenching over all, — 
But each is jealous if another 
Lie in finer funeral bed, 
And never, never can we smother 
Envy in the helpless dead. 



[103] 



THE FAMILIAR YEARS 

What strange familiars are the years 
That count a life . . . 
Rememberingly ! 

Wraiths of old passion, happiness and hurt, 
And the sudden shiver of the Past that stands 
Glass-like before thee . . . 
Saying, 

"I . . . I am thy soul. 

"I am the babe thou wast, 

"Whose prattle murmurs far and lingeringly 

"Down from thy distant infancy 

"Like faint star-music. 

"I am the youth thou wast, — 

"I the surprise 

"That smote thine eyes with beauty! 

"I am thy golden youth, 

"To froth and bubble blown 

"By the windy years, the windy years . . . 

"I am thy maturity, — 

"Stinging and acid where I burn 

"Nigh to thy heart's desire! 

"Colder than brittle ice 

"There where I strake thee terribly, 

"Taking thy babe's life, that was thy life. 

[104] 



"I . . . I am thy Past, thy soul. 

"I have given thee life, 

"I have given thee love, 

"I have given thee beauty, 

"I have given thee death to taste! 

"I am of molten glass, 

•'I am of steel, 

''I am the image of the years thou countest 

''Rememberingly." 



THE HOUSE OF PLEASANT MEMORIES 

In the house of pleasant memories 
I welcome them, the honored, the august 
Guests of my soul, come hither from past years 
At the master's summons. 

Welcome to you also, ye new-come days 
Who bear to me the forms of friends esteemed, 
Like spra^^s of fragrant blossoms in a vase 
Adorning the house of pleasant memories. 



[105] 



THE MOUNTAINS OF THE LORD 

My thoughts are where the mountains rise 
In snowy banks up to the skies 

Above the shining plain: 
They kneel like holy mysteries 

To skies without a stain . . . 

They kneel like bands of angels white 
That bow them to celestial light 

With drooped and folded wings: 
Enraptured each with vision bright 

Which out of Heaven it brings . . . 

Enraptured each with vision caught 

From that great day when God first wrought 

His Will upon the Deep: 
When Heaven first sang and Earth was brought 

Up from th' abysmal Steep . . . 

As Seraphs on whom from every zone 
In that high hour His wonder shone, 

In reverence they bend: 
While fleecy clouds above them blown, 

Like holy doves descend . . . 

Like holy doves descend to rest 
A silent moment on each crest, 

As in a mystery: 
Till each is touched and each is blest 

With their serenity . . . 

[106] 



They are the Mountains of the Lord, 
His glory seen, His message heard, 

His guardian Seraphim : 
The revelation of His Word, 

And His eternal hymn. 



ROADS THAT WANDER 

Roads that wander up and down, 
Over swell and into swale, 

Is there never any town 

Where your journeys fail? 

Do ye endless turn and turn 
On to an empty morrow — 

No while lingering by the burn 
Or by grassy barrow? 

Do the crowding ghostly feet 
Of your pilgrims never — 

Some trudge slow and some run fleet 
Rest by the grateful river? 

Roads that wander up and down, 
Do ye lead to no still town? 



[107] 



TO ANNA, ON HER BIRTHDAY 

Anna, 
WTiat is 't we mean by life of man? 

Oh, in our hearts we know it well ! 
But — strangest puzzle of our plan — 

What best we know, we least can tell. 

A day of birth, a day of death, 
And in between the counted years. 

Whose moments pass, some with the breath 
Of laughter laden, some with tears. 

No more but this? Nay, were this all — 

A coming and a vanishing — 
How could we prize what might befall 

So foolish and so frail a thing? 

How else could seem the days that pass. 
Some with their sorrows, some with joys, 

But dew and sunshine on the grass, 
Or lust and tire of childish toys? 

Instead, we count them one by one. 

Like precious pearls that thread the seams 

Of some rich broidery that 's done 
In mystery of sweetest dreams: 



[108] 



And every pearl 's a pearl of price 
That bears a lustre all its own 

Brought from the wondermere that lies 
Deep in our life's alchemic zone: 

And every pearl that sets its gift 
Into the broidery that 's wove 

Adds treasure to the magic shift 
Whose final glory is life's love. 

Ah, love it is that makes us care, 

And love it is that gives us strength 

When heavily our griefs we bear 
And weary days lag weary length: 

Ah, love it is that is most dear! 

Which day by day in lustre grows, 
Till all life's meaning 's patterned clear 

In lilied vine and leafed rose. 

Not lightly can our love be given — 
Whose precious shining greets each day 

Like some rare miracle of Heaven, — 
And can we think it ta'en away? 



[109] 



HORIZONS 

Yours be the near delight, mine the horizon 
Clambering, clambering, up to the skies, 

New with each hill-top opening mine eyes on 
Circle past circle complete with surprise: 

Girdles of mystery binding the universe, 

Zones of enchantment, spirals of light, 
Seas of translucency all the swoll'n space immerse, 

Bathing the seer with a radiance of sight! 

Unsullied, unstained, remote from all trouble. 

With shimmering glories enhued and impearled, 

Heaven's great sphere like a quivering bubble 
Blown by the ecstacied winds of the world: 

Ah, the broad sweeps of them, rushes and leaps of them! 

Opaline, crystalline, freshening fair! 
Ah, the vast deeps of them, heights of them, steeps of them! 

Shining dominions of light and of air! 



[HO] 



PILGRIM CHORUS 

Ah, we be Pilgrims all ! Ah, we be Pilgrims all ! 
Adown the wide world straying: 
Life's petals ope, life's petals fall, — 
To some 'tis ever virginal, 
To some 'tis ever graying. 

Ah, we be Pilgrims all ! Ah, we be Pilgrims all ! 

Always to some 

Life's Spring is come. 
And youth and maid go Maying 

With a bit of chaff 

And a jolly laugh 
The while Love's game is playing, — 

A bit of chaff. 

And a merry laugh, 

And the kiss that ends it all ! 

Ah, we be Pilgrims all ! Ah, we be Pilgrims all ! 
Always to some 
Life's end is come. 
And the last farewells are saying, 
And a bitter tear 
Falls on the bier, 
And anguisht hearts are praying, — 
A woman's tear 
Fall'n softly, near. 
And the kiss that ends it all ! 



fill] 



) A 



Ah, we be Pilgrims all ! Ah, we be Pilgrims all ! 
Adown the wide world straying: 
Life's petals ope, life's petals fall, — 
To some 'tis ever virginal, 
To some 'tis ever graying: 
A bit of chaff 
And a merry laugh. 

And the kiss that ends it all! 
A woman's tear 
Fall'n softly near 

And the kiss that ends it all! 



[112] 



II 

FROM THE BOOK OF HER SONGS 



DOMINA ILLUMINATRIX MEA 
I 

In the far halls of melody and dream 

Wanders my poet lady, song and smile 

On her sweet lips, and in her eyes the gleam 
Of wonder ever fresh, or the dear guile 

Of mischief fancy, — so her thoughts do seem 
In light to clothe her body all the while, 

And changeful beauty vies with minstrelsy 

To tell her spirit's happy errantry. 

O ye shall name her Lady Bountiful 

Who wanders all the day with smile and song 

Seeking her fancy's hidden flowers to cull, 

And hourly strews new joy her path along, 

Who giving ever ever finds to give 

And just in living makes the worth to live. 

II 

E'en as the flower turns ever to the sun 

By whose rich gift all warmth and life it holds, 
Till every lifting petal is fine spun 

With beams of shining aether, reds and golds, 
Whilst in its inmost heart a drop of dew, 

All trembling, strained from heaven's crystal stream, 
Bears in clear depths the sun's bright image true 

To be night-long its memory and its dream: 



[115] 



So, dear one, unto thee my thought aye turns 
Gathering life and glow from thy rich gift. 

Whilst deep within my heart thine image burns 
Till the enarching shadows gloomless lift, — 

For, oh, thou art the very central light 

Through whom all beauties bless the eager sight. 

Ill 

Lady, my thought of thee must ever fail 
To find a form of beauty adequate 
To mete the worth and grace of that estate 

Wherewith bright angels blessed thee when the pale 

First blush of life came dawnlike to thy cheek 
And thy sweet eyes with prescient wondering 
Oped fluttering lids, the while on delicate wing 

Trembled awed Psyche ere Love she flew to seek. 

Dear Lady, I have gazed upon thy face 
And seen the shining Token sealed there 

By the high Hand that gave thee benison ; 
But, oh, my Lady, scarce mine eyes did dare 

In hardihead to hold the vision won. 
For that I knew me nigh an Holy Place. 



[116] 



IV 

Today the sun in burning solitude 

Holds all the blue-domed heaven, and suspense 

Of buoyant radiance quivering tense 
Fills the broad earth, smiting her nude 
And aching soil until the hidden brood 

Of spring prenatal feel dim presentiments 

Of light, and bursting wintry cerements 
Are sudden stirred to strange inquietude. 

Today I lie me in the prickling glow 

And watch the glint of dead leaves idly swinging, 
Till, lo, I hear a stranger throstle singing. 

And all my spirit answers his sweet flow, 

And hope of summer in my heart is springing. 
And swift to thee my eager thoughts are winging. 

V 

Sunlight and fleece of cloud sky-wandering. 

And deeps of pulsing space where fall and fill 

The fleeting winds all odorous of spring. 

The summons of far hill o'ertopping hill, 

The speeding joy of bird on balanced wing 

Ranging broad worlds, all these, and most the thrill 

Of the inner melody thou givest me, 

In my full heart are clamorous of thee. 



[117] 



But, oh, Beloved, when the still night falls 

And wide her cloudy pinions are unfurled, 

And sense is curtained as with sombre palls, 

And the great quiet closes o'er the world, 

Oh then, mid hush, I haste a pilgrim soul. 

Where thy dear presence sets the shining goal! 

VI 

Give thanks, my heart, for all the shining stars. 

The benediction of their tranquil glow, 
And most yon twain that seem bright avatars 

Of lovers lover-sainted long ago. 
Whose lot unkind made sweetest fate to die, 

Till they were stationed by the pitying hand 
Of some high deity his presence nigh 

To show how God for Love hath overplanned. 

O Lady, see ye not great Venus there 

Blessing the twain with burning goddess heart, 
Lingering near that even she may share 

The glory wrested from their ancient smart? 
Dear Lady, in all worlds that are to be 
Our love shall last as undividedly. 



[118] 



VII 

June, Sabbath, and the hush of sunny day, 
And I am on the road above the plain 

That stretches prone and still, a sealess bay, 

With checkering grove and field and gleaming lane 

And sandy scar that marks the ancient vray 

Where shining river sought the shining main. 

While round about the dreamy mountains rise 

Rank upon rank, like coasts of Paradise. 

And once the desperate waters of old seas 

Surged thwart the plain with angry crest and claw 
Up to yon brunting hills, and into these. 

Coiling in reptile rage, did hungry gnaw . , . 
O Love, this Sabbath peace sings low, sings low, 
But underneath is ache of olden woe. 

VIII 

Beloved, mid all the change mine eyes do see. 
Or show of sense or flittering of thought, 
There art thou ever, as ever thou art sought, 

My constant one through life's inconstancy: 

Yea, like to yon spirit hill that seems to stand 

Aloof from Earth's foundations and the drift 
Of transient cloud, immutably to lift 

Into still Heaven a still and holy land. 



[119] 



There have I seen a. solitary wraith 

Of high-aspiring cloud draw nigh the crest, — 
Draw nigh, transfigured by the guiding sun, 
Till mortal and immortal were as one: 
O my Beloved, is not our lover's faith 

Mid mortal change immortally so blest? 

IX 

How blessed are those moments that do bare 

The world's hid loveliness unto mine eyes: 
Bright images of Beauty that surprise 

With radiance life's drab, and banish care. 

And make the whole of Nature sudden fair, 
Illumined as by clear celestial dyes 
Caught from the changing glories of the skies 

And for the blissful instant fixed there! 

But, oh, of all the Beauties that do show 

Like maiden blushes on the cheek of day. 

None are so sweet as those which bud and blow 

In blossomy smiles that thy dear love betray — 

None, none so richly do this world enhance 

As the quick Loves a-startled in thy glance! 



[120] 



X 

Fling wide the portal ! For today I go 

Into her presence who is my spirit's queen! 
Today I give my life for her demesne 

And unto her in vassalage bestow 

All dreams, hopes, visions, labors ! Oh ! 

Fling wide the portal ! Let the winds part clean 
The cloudy barriers, till mine eyes have seen 

Her glory throned mid Heaven's immortal glow! 

Ah, what are years but an impatient day? 
And who is Time that he should bid me gray 

When Love doth bear me forth upon his wing? 
On, on, into her presence, there to be 
Engloried in her heaven-lit radiancy ! . . . 

Years be but breaths that do her beauty sing! 



[121] 



MATIN 



Hist, O Heart, the throstle v^^aketh 

Into raptured matin-song; 
Drowsy earth the lark forsaketh 
While his lyric soul outbreaketh, — 
"Love can do no wrong — 

O never, never, never, never! 
Love a god is, great and strong ; 
Love is mighty ever, ever!" 

Joy, O Heart, the Dawn-God maketh 

Morn with glad'ning blushes bright; 
All the dewy world he flaketh 

With his flowers of rosy light; 
Hark the lark's mad soul outbreaketh, — 
"Love is ever right — 

Yea, ever, ever, ever, ever! 
Love hath lordly might; 
Dieth never, never!" 



[122] 



SEVEN SONGS 



Sweet, 'tis the thought of thee 

Aye in my mind, 
Fantasies caught of thee 

Graces divined. 
Images wrought of thee, 

Do my heart bind! 
Say not 'tis taught of thee 

Love maketh blind ! 

II 

If wishes were like golden bees, 

All honey-laden, Sweet, they'd bear 

My wish in their rich argosies 

That crystal-perfect, blossom-fair 

Thy life might pass mid harmonies 
Finer than high seraphs dare. 

And, oh, they'd say my love would be 
The crystal wherein thine is shown! 

And, oh, they'd wish my gift to thee 

Sweet bloom before thy footsteps strown, 

And all my heart's deep melody 

The singing echo of thine own! 



[123] 



Ill 

My days are as a singing space 

Betwixt the lids of nightj 
Whose radiant sun is thy sweet face, 

Thy smile its blessed light: 

My nights are all a precious dream 
Made fragrant by thy sighs, 

Illumined by the starry gleam 
Of thy soul's Paradise: 

Oh, day and night combine through thee 

In one unblemished hour 
That lures my heart in ecstacy 

To open as a flower! 

IV 

When thou art near I tremble, dear, 
As leaves in sudden rain, — 

When thou art nigh my heart beats high 
With bliss akin to pain . . . 

For, oh, I fear thy beauty, dear, 

As petals fear the dew, — 
And, oh, I cling fond-treasuring 

To each sweet hour with you ! . . . 

When thou art near I tremble, dear, 
With bliss akin to pain . , . 

[124] 



How my thoughts go chasing 

Like the fragile foam 
Of a runlet racing 

Through the channeled loam 
Full of bubble, bubble, 

Fleet with lucent flow! 

Rainbowed with the sunbeam, 

Woodbrow^ned with the glen, 
Fickle now with fun-gleam. 
Wastrel-dreaming when 
Pursed lips do nubble 

Ere the crystals blow! 

Underneath the racing — 

Call it fancy-free! 
Mischief sprites grimacing 
Make glib mock of me 

Ere the bubbles frothle 
Into misty glow ! 

Oh, I see it clearer 

With each crystal blown ! 
Thee they mirror, mirror — 
Mirror thee alone! 

All for true-heart trothal 
Thoughts a-racing go! 



[125] 



VI 

When thoi! art nigh all skies are bright 

And every glowing breath of air 
Comes quivering with a fresh delight 

And Joys are flitting everywhere; 
Yea, shining Joys from thy clear eyes, 

And singing Joys from thy sweet lips, 
And peace of Angel mysteries. 

And Love without eclipse, — 
All these are by 
When thou art nigh, art nigh! 

But, oh, when thou art far from me, 

How desolate is heaven's glow! 
How empty all the hours that be 

By creeping shadows meted slow! 
Then in my heart I house me ill 

With turbulence of motlied guest 
Who doth mine aching spirit fill 

With Longings, Fever, hot Unrest, — - 
Yea, these things are 
When thou art far, art far! 



[126] 



VII 

Ever more dear to me, 

She I love tenderly; 
Ever more near to me 

She vv^hom I love so true! 

Time changeth not my heart; 
Space holds us ne'er apart; 

Aye, I behold her with love ever new! 

Bright angel of my dreams, star of my longing! 
Spirit of beauty sent hither from above! 
Ever she bringeth me sweet fancies thronging, 
Ever createth fair mornings of love! 

Time changeth not my heart; 
Space holds us ne'er apart; 

Aye, I behold her with love ever new! 

She aye so near to me, 

She I love tenderly; 
Ever more dear to me, 

She I love true! 



[127] 



THE BRIDE SINGETH 

Flowers, flowers everywhere, 

Lily hue and hue of rose, 
In the shining, shining air 

How each happy blossom glows! 
Jeweled buds with fairy portals 

Op'ning shyly one by one,— 
See! the dewy, dewy petals. 

How they quiver to the sun! 

Flowers, flowers have a meaning — 

Still thee, still thee, heart of mine! 
*Tis a whimsy heart o'erweening 

All for me the blossoms shine: 
'Tis a whimsy heart that trembles — 

Sprites of laughter, sprites of tears,- 
Is it joy that so dissembles 

In a guise of mocking fears? 

Hist! I hear a glad voice calling — 

Calling me to be a bride! 
Is Love sweet or bitter thralling? 

Is Life bravest at his side? 
See, the petals, dewy, shining. 

How they quiver to the sun! 
Heart of mine is past divining, — 

Unto thee, Beloved, I run! 



[128] 



PRIMAVERA 

The Winter days are passing by, 

And Spring is in the air; 
And there's a stir of tender growth 

Beneath the earth so bare: 

The tiny roots are taking suck 

Of all sweet saps that be, 
And dreamy buds are swelling fast 

On every bush and tree: 

Each sunny hour is fresh and pure 
And dewed with blessedness, 

While gentle winds, like babies' breaths, 
Do furtively caress 

The lips of all soft slumberers 
Snug-hidden in their cots — 

Of crocuses and violets 

And blue forget-me-nots, — 

To waken there the shining soul 

That is a meadow's star. 
And open wide the petal'd lids 

Of eyes that blossoms are, — 

To fill the fields with mystery. 

And unto gardens bring 
The tenderness and innocence 

And fragrance that is Spring. 

[129] 



NOON O' THE YEAR 

Where qui'ef waters silent flow 

And meadows flower to sunny swells, 

And elms their gracious shadows throw, 
And willows droop o'er limpid wells — 

Where sprangled daisies, cups of gold, 
And noiseless bells of melting blue. 

Do flaunt and shrink upon the wold 
And hidden honeys brew — 

Where films of gossamer are spun 

From fragile grasses soft with bloom. 

And moth-wings flutter in the sun 
Or poise on fragrant broom — 

Where thistle-down in wander-lust 
Is floating like a silver breath, 

And puff-ball bursts to shining dust 
As 'twere a fairy's death — 

Where viny tendrils delicate 
Like baby fingers softly cling. 

And birds in leafy thickets mate 
Mid liquid twittering — 

Oh, thither, thither, I would wind 

On traceless feet all airily. 
And in the magic meadows find 

Anew, anew, my song of thee! 

[130] 



AUTUMNAL 

When the year's turning, 
Red leaves and yellow 

Wind-tumbled spurning 
Each spritely fellow: 

When the corn crinkles, 

Blackbirds a-flocking 
Where the husk crinkles 

Sheer for the shocking: 

When the dust flurries, 

Lifts, and is over 
Ere the squirrel skurries 

Into his cover: 

When the Sun's mintage, 

Autumn's rich booty 
Is stamped in the vintage 

Red-ripe and fruity: 

All the year turning, 
All the days mellow, — 

Ah, then my heart's yearning 
To its dear fellow! 

Ah, then my heart's beating 

Rosily, gaily, 
While thought of my sweeting 

Grows blesseder daily! 

[131] 



FOR DELIGHT 

Fairies be mid springtide flowers, 

Fairies be mid autumn leaves, 
In mossy grots, in wooded bowers, 

And in the harvest's yellow sheaves: 

Fairies be in many places 

If you will but seek, — 
Some with merry nutbrown faces, 

Some with petalled cheek: 

If your faiths do be but true ones. 

Everywhere you go 
Bright brown eyes will greet your blue ones, 

Airy kisses blow 

From the hedgerow and the heather, 
Brookside banks and acorned dells, — 

In all sorts of pleasant weather. 
Fairies, whisp'ring magic spells. 



[132] 



THINKING OF THEE WITH JOY 

Thinking of thee with joy 
I stand beside thee — 
Beside and a little behind 

Like a shadow that moves ever so gently when thou dost 
breathe. 

I touch thee not, 

Altho' I know that thou art warm with life; 

I look not into thine eyes, 

Altho' I know that they are smiling: 

But I look with them, 

Yonder I look 

Where the bushes feather with frosty crystal 

And the delicate twigs on the outmost branches of the trees 

Part in crystal tracery. 

There are red berries amid the green of the holly-wreath 

upon our neighbor's door, 
And there are children with bright caps and new sleds gaily 

breaking paths in the snow. 
Laughing with their Yuletide gifts . . . 

I also am as a child 

Made happy w^ith the most precious of gifts. 

As I stand shadow-like at thy shoulder 

Feeling the warmth of thy life, 

Conscious of thy smile, 

Thinking of thee with joy! 

[133] 



FOUR SONGS 
I 

Phoebus, all the world awaking, 

Bird and bush and flower and bee, 

With thy radiant glances making 
Chill and sullen shadow flee, 
Waken Love, and send him me! 

Be he hidden ne'er so cosy — 

Dimpling cheek and blushes rosy — 
Under bossom-burdened tree, 
Waken, waken Love for me! 

II 

Dryad, Dryad! 
Dryad, Dryad! 
Come forth from out thy drowsy tree! 
The mischief winds are blowing free! 
And scamper and laughter 
Are following after. 
Till every wild comer 
Is brimful of summer! 
Dryad, Dryad! 
Dryad, Dryad ! 
Why linger ye so drowsily? 
Come wander down the world with me! 
Dryad, Dryad! 



[134] 



Ill 

The mist hangs low this morning 
From a sky of sombre gray 

And the birds cry plaintive warning 
Like to spirits far away: 

O my Love, for thine adorning 
There be only petals stray. 

Petals stray from blossoms broken 
By the heavy, heavy dew — 

These alone may be the token 
Of the love I bear for you: 

Of the love which I have spoken 
Shall be ever, ever true. 

Petals stray for thine adorning — 
See! I bind them in thy hair, — 

O Beloved, look not with scorning 
That no richer gift I bear 

On this sombre grayling morning: 

'Tis my heart I'm binding there. 



[135] 



IV 

'Tis June, 'tis June, 'tis June! 

And all the world's atune! 
Mad summer is come 
With chirrup and hum 
And wild wings a-thrum — 
'Tis June! 

How the hills are a-flaunt 
With pageantries gay! 

And hark ye the taunt 

Of the wood-folk at play — 
'Tis June! 

Oh, the day is a-blare 
With a turbulent joy! 

Clear carols the air 

Of the brown shepherd boy- 
'Tis June! 

'Tis June, 'tis June, 'tis June! 

All life is at high noon! 
Sweet Mischief 's a-wing 
And Love hath his fling, 
O Lady come sing — - 
'Tis June! 



[136] 



IMAGO LUCIS 

Beloved, thou art the light of all my soul, 
The purest vision of mine inward part, 

The sun whose blessings daily make me whole 

And every gloom send scatt'ring from my heart, — 

Ah, never shall my weaker spirit blind 

When thou art nigh t' ilkimine heart and mind! 

My sun thou art and I thy lunar orb, 

Whose glory 'tis but in thy beams to shine 

Where hapless farers of the night absorb 

Thro' me some image of thy light divine, — 

Ah, lamentation riseth from their lips 

When earth doth dungeon me in thine eclipse! 

O be they brief! those solitary hours 

When thou and I are twained — and may they pass 
As blessedly as April's sudden showers 

That leave new treasure shining mid the grass, — 
O be they brief ! and be our love's one doom 
From every parting to renew its bloom! 



[137] 



AN AIRE UNTO STRINGS 

There is a song that true hearts sing, 
A plaintive song and old, — 

There is a dream with fragile wing 
All shining like pale gold: 

There is a tender, haunting air 
That trembles and is gone, — 

There is a freshness everywhere 
Of dew and crystal dawn: 

There is a singing melody 

Thrummed sweetly at mine ear, — 
There is a hum of laden bee 

That murmurs far and near: 

There is a chant aerial 

Tuned to an angel's tone, — 

There is a voice that seems to tell 
Of her who is mine own: 

There is such music in my heart 
As seraphs hymn above, — 

And, oh, the dear musician's art. 
It is my lady's love! 



[138] 



LOVE'S CHANTY 

A boat there is with swoll'n sails, 
To puffing winds, to sturdy gales, 
Doth drive adown the sea: 

A galleon with streamers gay 
That o'er the foam doth break her way 
With gift I send to thee: 

The freight within her stancheoned hold 
More precious is than Spanish gold, 
Than Afric ivory: 

Than spikenard more rich and rare. 
Than Orient gums more sweet the ware 
My ship doth bear with her: 

Whose captain is a winged boy. 
Whose very ropes do sing for joy 
Of such a voyageur: 

And as she sails the sea-foams plash 
With music like to cymbal clash 
On oaken beam and fir: 

Till every timber shouts with glee 
That bears my freighted ship to thee, 
As in a chanty sung 



[139] 



By sailormen of every clime, 
With throats attuned to every rhyme 
Ere falFn from lover's tongue: 

For in my ship the cargo rare 

Is made of true-love's every ware . . . 

O Lady, thou'lt discover there 

My heart to Love's whole music strung! 



MEMORY 

How sweet a gift is Memory, 
The treasure that it bears 

Is like a golden Argosy 

Blown in from sun-kist years: 

And dream and vision are its crews, 
And love and happiness, 

And shining tears like tender dews 
That may but fall to bless: 

Dear faces crowd above the rail, 

Whence once they bade farewell, 

Home, home again, with happy hail, 
In Memory to dwell! 



[140] 



WHAT IS A SWEETHEART? 

And what is a Sweetheart? Ah, 'tis a she 
Apparelled as queenly as true love should be! 

Spun dreams are her kirtle, her mantle the light 
Of love-woven fancies; her girdle is bright 

With gold out of nowhere, and bright are her shoon 
With buckles deft-beaten from silver-o'-moon ; 

She weareth a necklet of luminous pearls — 
Which each is a kiss for the dearest of girls! 

Her rings are devotions, all set to an air, 
And blossoms of poesy garland her hair: 

And, oh, if ye 'd know it w^hat make her most dear 
Are the love-locks that tenderly curtain each ear, 

As if she would barken (but shyly and faint) 

To the zephyrs that whisper her lover's complaint — 

His longing to say the ineffable things 

That always the thought of her to his heart brings 

How the wonder and light of her all his world fills, 
And the chant of her beauty 's a paean that thrills 

His soul like the music of viols and horns 
That answer the sunrise o' riotous morns! 

How the image and face of her burned on his sight 
Have dazzled him, blinded to all but her light, 



[141] 



Till the round of his senses is snared in the sheen 
Of her whose apparel surpasseth a queen! 

Ah, such is a Sweetheart! And such is the she 
That hath worked this sad havoc so sweetly in me 



MELODY 

Every time thy birthday cometh 
In my heart a songster hummeth 
Happy melodye! 

All about the precious year 
That was mine with thee so near: 
All about the singing moons 
Harmonied to lovers' tunes: 
All about the shining days 
That have giv'n thee to my gaze, 
And the interweaving hours 
Like a garland of sweet flowers! 

Oh, a year with thee is measure 
Brimming o'er with wonder-treasure, 
And each time thy birthday cometh 
In my heart a songster hummeth 
Happy melodye! 



[142] 



HER GARDEN 

There is a garden where she walks, 
My Lady and my Blessed One, 

With beds of flowers and grassy balks 
And shady seats and paths that run 

Where silverly the poplar talks 
And golden shines the sun . . . 

Oh, it is faerie with such flow^ers! 

And she hath planted them; 
And there are smiles in all the bowers 

Touched by her garment's hem, 
And rainbow lights in sparkling showers 

That make a diadem . . . 

Serenely there the Lily grows 

Her flower of perfect Hope, 
And Love is breathed from ever^^ Rose 

Whose dewy buds flush ope. 
And Faith where there the Bluebell blows 

In Heaven's azure cope . . . 

The quivering leaves are eager hands 

That lift frail chalices 
To where my lovely Lady stands 

Beneath the singing trees 
Whose branches are baptismal wands 

That bless her with each breeze . . . 



[143] 



And there are Birds of Happiness, 

And cooing Doves of Peace, 
And Humming-birds whose swift caress 

Is like young Love's release, 
And Larks that lilt what she may guess 

Of burning ecstacies ... 

Yea, joy of all the winged things 

Her Garden brings to her, 
And sweetness to each petal clings 

Of honey and of myrrh, 
And Life throughout the Garden sings 

To its bright Gardener . . . 

Who walks amid the beds of bloom 
And muses where the sun — 

Deft weaver ! — from his magic loom 
Spins gossamers upon 

The tendril shoot and ferny plume, 
Entasseled one by one . . . 

Her Garden 'tis, with all its flowers, — 
For she hath planted them, — 

With all its birds, and all the bowers 
That bless her garment's hem : 

Its seasons are her spirit's hours. 
Her soul its diadem. 



[144] 



THE FLOWER OF LOVE 

What shall the flower of true love be? 

O Lady sweet, come tell it me: 

Shall it be crimson? shall it be white? 

Or the deep true blue that is Heaven's light? 

A lily, a rose, or a pansy pied, — 

Meadow bloom or garden's pride, 

Or fruity promise of blossomy tree, — 

What shall the flower of true love be? 

Shall it be shy as the violet. 

Or darling-named mignonette? 

Flower of Orient, shall it bear 

Musky incense rich and rare 

Mid its petals dead and hoary, — 

Or just the radiant Morning's glory, 

Born to live one brief bright hour? 

Say what shall be my true love's flower! 

''Who is this that asketh me 
"What the flower of love shall be? 
" 'Tis a wit nor shrewd nor nimble 
"Telleth love by one mere symbol! 
"All the blossoms that do shine 
"On mead or wood, on bush or vine, 
"Are too poor to tell the story 
"Of the love that is love's glory! 



[145] 



"Petals fine as a sweet babe's skin, 
"Flushed as the life that flows within, — 
"Dews that the morning doth surprise 
"Like laughter-lights in a sweet babe's eyes,- 
"And delicate tendrils gleaming there 
"Like the sun on a sweet babe's hair, — 
"If aught I'd say, I'd say to thee 
"Such the flower of love must be!" 

O Lady dear, thou'st told to me 
What the flower of love should be — 
A blossom plucked from Paradise 
To shine into our mortal eyes, 
To bear within its crystal shell 
Living waters that do well 
From the quenchless springs above 
To replenish mortal love. 

In its petals there will shine 
Tints of Beauty that's divine, — 
Like a bud it will unfold 
To a heart of purest gold, — 
Till it give us love's full measure. 
Till it be our life's bright treasure, — 
For love is life, and life shall be 
The flower of love eternally. 



[146] 



THE CIRCLET OF REMEMBRANCE 

Sweetheart, as the years increase, 
And bring the gray amid the brown, 
And harmonies of life's younger mood 
Resolve to deeper quietude — 

As after battle falleth peace 
O'er field and town, — 
Each year, enlustered with new glows 
The circlet of remembrance grows 
More precious — till a sun-kist fleece 

Is life's enhallowed crown. 

The circlet of remembrance, dear, — 
Oh, it is wrought of jewelled days, 
And each is counted like a bead. 
And each a prayer in life's whole creed, 

And some are colored bright with cheer, 
And some are grays, — 
A calendar whose spaces grow 
With dates illumined, row on row 
Unbroken, — which each changing year 

Renewed yet constant stays. 

It tells us out of what is passed 
How much of sweetness may remain, 
It tells us of the hours gone by 
In time but not in memory, 

And what in joy is meant to last, 
And what in pain, — 

[147] 



Yea, Truth of Life it tells, whereof 
The essence is enduring love . . . 
Ah, slight the loss, if yet so vast 
And precious be the gain! 



HER CORONAL 

My Lady hath a Coronal 

All wrought of splendors rare; 
'Tis dight with golden sunbeams 

Agleam on her dear hair, 
And smiles and rosy laughter 

Are treasures she doth wear. 

My Lady hath a Coronal - — 
What shall its jewels be? 

Oh, they are opal wonders 
That have enchanted me. 

For they are rainbow'd thro' with joy 
Of heir heart's wizardry. 

My Lady hath a Coronal — 
Rich jewels it doth bear. 

That are the years of her sweet life 
And they are golden fair, 

And each sweet year doth her Coronal 
A brighter splendor wear! 



[148] 



ENHALLOWED 

There is a wreath upon her brow, 

That none may see, that none may see, 

Save only him that sees it now 
And unremittingly. 

Of gold it is, of palest gold, 

And threaded through with patterned line,- 
Like some rare broidery of old 

And delicate design. 

About her brow it turns and twines, 

All shot with sunny rays. 
And, oh, it is a symbol of 

The loveliness that plays 
Like golden mists fall'n from above 

To dew with gold her days. 

About her brow it twines and turns. 

An holy mystery, 
And there are thorns amid the vines 

And drops that ruby be; 
And, oh, when it so redly burns. 

It is her Calvary. 

Yea, pain and love are in it wrought, 
Like lucent flowers of Paradise, — 

The sainted halo that is caught 
From out her quiet eyes. 

[149] 



It is the wreath that crowns her brow, 
That none may see, that none may see, 

Save only him that gives his vow 
All unremittingly. 



MOTHER SONG 

Whither away, my darling, — 
Whither away, whither away? 

On, to the fairy sleep-land, 
Thither, oh thither away! 

There the fairy babies. 
Dreaming fairy dreams. 

Rock in blue-bell cradles 
Lulled by tinkling streams. 

Hist! they come, my darling, — 
All their drowsy band. 

To steal thee away in slumber 
To dream in fairyland. 



[150] 



• ALPHA AND OMEGA } 

Behold ! 

I have builded me a Capitol, 

A seated City marble on its hill I 

Where shining porch and pediment do face "^ 

Sunwards with glory, and the arches fill 

With azures, and o'er all 

Vast domes like swelling firmaments do space 

The answering zenith with their spheric fires — 

Bronzen and gold and silvern, — 

And slender spires 

Like gleaming lances pierce 

Aerial, 

Where with tones antiphonal, 

Octave, tierce. 

From their high stations chant 

Muezzin voices, like the plaint 

Of music immemorial 

Singing all desires . . . 

Behold ! 

It is my spirit's Tavern, 

It is my Place 

Of phantom quietude and of grace 

Phantasmal . . . 

Mine Empery empyreal ! 

For it is lifted up, 

Up, up, above the plains — 

Heated with sighs, sodden with salty tears, 

( 

[151] 



That are the level of life's wandering years, — 

Till brim to brim with heaven it doth cup, 

Cool with celestial blue 

And with bright dew 

Caerulean 

Forever freshening, 

While vibrant strains 

From winds aeolian 

Forever through its chanting turrets ring . . . 

Behold! 

It is my walled Citadel 

High-fortified with Beauty: all its fanes 

Glow with immortal Loveliness; 

In each palace reigns 

All princely Wisdom; there do dwell 

In every mansion Poetry and Peace; 

And all its marts are pageants of rich wares 

From visionary lands, o'er visionary seas 

Transported — hued prismatical, 

Faint-fragrant as from airs 

Remote, rememberless . . . 

In cloistered court 

Tall lilies bloom beside the well 

Azured from Paradise, 

Where the plumed heron, poised in mute surmise, 

Is glassed in stillness 

Mid lucent shimmerings 

Of tiny insect wings 

A-dance in nymphan sport . . . 

[ 152 ] 



Whither should I betake me 

Save it be 

Thither, within my City, where are brought 

My People from their past? . . . 

The kingly great who wrought 

Castles of splendour, the emperors of thought 

Who did unroll 

The burning scroll 

Of mind, all spirits made divine 

With winged aspirations, all who cast 

Earth unto crumbled earth, all they who ran 

With Love's tempestuous feet 

Following the fleet 

Foam-coursers of their dreams 

To strange and Siren isles . . . 

These are my People, wherewith my City seems 

As a feast-assembled household, as a mime 

Whose hour beguiles 

With deed heroic, as some rich caravan 

Athwart the Desert Time 

Long-journeyed, housed at last 

Where columned portico and cool-quafifed wine 

And shade of fronded trees 

Give gracious ease . . . 

Whither should I betake me 

Save it be 

Into my domed Citadel, 

There to dwell 

With calm-eyed scholarchs deciphering the shards 

[153] 



Of strown mortality, with mantic bards 

Aflame with prophecy, 

From whose lips 

Stream the dread splendours of apocalypse 

Dooming that day 

When earth shall shrivel and white levin 

Sunder the bolted heaven 

And an abysmic blast 

Wipe clear 

Man's histrion year . . . 

All the unbodied Past 

And the unsounded vast 

Of a Future bodiless 

People my City, where it stands 

Shining with jewelled wall — 

Onyx and jasper, jacinths, beryls, sards, — 

Above the timeless bay 

Where the vagrant ages fall 

In long slow-sounding surfs, and at the last 

Sink placidly, 

Lapping the slumbrous sands . . . 

Behold! 

Alpha and Omega are the names 

Of this my City! 

They are two flames 

Forever burning clear 

Wherewith 'tis luminous — the counted moons 

Of mortal things remembered, the high noons 

Of myriad suns to be! 

[154] 



Far-freshening founts 

Of light they are, twain blent 

Of wonder and content, — 

Beacons from that Empyreal sphere 

Whither the spirit, by the obscure woods 

Of life long-wearied, musing mounts 

Unto bright-orbed altitudes . . . 

Empress ! 

Wilt thou enter? Wilt thou be 

Imaged beside me on the marble throne? 

Through the great archway welcome the auspicy 

Of eagle-winged Morn? The royal Sun 

With royalty 

Of thine own purples greeting? 

Until he own 

The splendour of thy raiment, and caress 

With suppliant rays entreating 

Its dream-enwoven hem ! . . . 

Empress ! 

Wilt thou share 

My City ? Wear 

Its diadem? 

Within the pillared porches of my Capitol 

Sign to the Spirit-Harpers that they sing 

The chant triumphal. 

Whiles I bring 

Gift of my world forever? . . . 

Forever the fine gold of Beauty's Empery! 



[155] 



VESPER 

There is gold on the western mountains, 
There is flame on the western sea, 

And the ache and the lure of the sunset 
Are summoning thee and me: 

For the roll of the tumbling waters 
And the glamour of distant shore 

Strike back with the evening's glory 
To the heart of man evermore: 

And the sting of olden yearnings 
And the promise of things to be 

Urge on to the flashing mountains 
Over the singing sea. 



[156] 



ni 
FOR REMEMBRANCE 



ANNUNCIATION 
Scene I 

THE PARADISE OF LITTLE SOULS. In the midst, on a 
shining throne, is Mary, the Mother of Jesus. About her is a choir 
of Guardian Angels. With hands alert and fearless feet, though 
each is blind-folded like a Cupid, multitudes of souls of unborn 
children are dancing about, as in a joyous game of blindman's-buff. 
All Paradise is melodious ivith their happy cries and baby laughter. 
Over the <whole scene hovers a delicate rosiness, like the rosiness of 
early Daivn or the flush of Life in a child's cheek. 

The Angels sing: 

Holy Mary, Blessed Mary, 
Thou who art our Jesu's Mother, — 
God hath given thee the portal 
To the ways that men call mortal. 

Sunny meadow. 

Sombre shadow. 
All the ways to thee are given 
Little children take from Heaven. 

Holy Mary, Blessed Mary, 
Thou who art dear Jesu's Mother, — 
God hath placed thee nigh the portal 
Children pass to life called mortal 

Thither speeding. 

Hither leading. 
Till thou find for one and other, 
For each child its sweetest mother. 



[159] 



Holy Mary, Blessed Mary, 
God hath given thee the portal, 
With a smile to lay it open. 
With a tear to seal it to. 
Smiles that brighten. 
Tears that lighten 
Spirit children passing thro' — • 
Each to go the way appointed 
With thy precious tears anointed. 

Holy Mary, Blessed Mary, 
Thou who art the Saviour's Mother, — 
Take and keep and guide them well, 
O'er the wild ways 
And the mild ways, 
Back to Heaven's asphodel, — 
Ever gently, gentlest Mary - — 
Little children are so faery! 

The little Child-Souls, blindfold, flit hither and thither, to and fro, 
gaily dancing and singing: 

Here we wander, there we wander, 
Seeking hither, seeking yonder, 
Seeking for the Gate of Heaven 

Leading unto mother dear, — 
Gentle Mary, loving Mary, 

Guide us each to mother dear. 



[160] 



One Group: 

Little sister, little brother, 

Canst thou find thy sweetest mother? 

Tell me, wilt thou love her only? 

Tell me, will she hold thee dear? 
Little children oft are lonely 

If sweet mother be not near. 

Another Group: 

Little brother, litle sister, 

Hast thou found her, hast thou kist her? 

Tell me all her radiant beauty — 
Tell me, tell me, w^ill she be 

Glad to teach thee every duty 
Children learn at mother's knee? 



All: 



Little sister, little brother, 

What sweet mother shall thine be? 



A little Voice. 



Mine shall be a flower Lady — 

Violets shall be her eyes, 
And her mouth the morning roses 

Caught with Heaven's fresh surprise! 



[161] 



A second Voice: 

Mine shall be a wonder Lady — 
Everything that precious is, 

Gems of joy and jewelled sunbeams, 
She shall give me with her kiss ! 

A third Voice: 

Mine shall be a singing Lady — 
Laughter-clear will be her eyes, 

And her song will be an echo 

Brought with me from Paradise! 



All: 



Little sister, little brother, 

Canst thou find thy sweetest mother? 

Little brother, little sister, 

Hast thou found her, hast thou kist her? 

As we wander, as we wander, 

Seeking hither, seeking yonder. 

Seeking for the Gate of Heaven 

Leading unto mother dear, — 
Gentle Mary, loving Mary, 

Guide us each to mother dear. 



They circle about ivith eager hands and joyous poise. As they near 
the shining throne, Mary draius one of the Child-Souls, all un- 
conscious of her guidance, apart from the others. At her touch 
the blindfolding falls from its eyes, and there opens before it, as 
from a Gate of Hea'ven, a vievj of the JV or Id's Garden, beauti- 



[162] 



Jul luith fields and floiuers. The Child-Soul, ecstatically clasp- 
ing its little hands, cries out: 

I have found it! I have found it! 
I have found the Gate of Heavjen ! 

All the little Souls, in a jubilant flutter: 

Thou hast found it, little brother? 

Thou hast found it, sister mine? 
Tell us, tell us, doth it open 

Into gardens fine? 

The little one: 

O the glowing, glowing gardens! 

O the golden, golden flowers! 
Hide-and-seek of light and shadow 

All the happy, laughing hours! 



All: 



Tell us, is there some one waiting. 
With the dream-light in her eyes? 

Tell us, is her face illumined 
With her fancy's bright surmise? 



The little one: 



Oh, I see a wonder Lady . . . 

Sweetest Mother . . . can she be? 
Guess who cometh out of Heaven 

With a love-gift unto thee! 

[163] 



The little one darts forth impulswely, ivh'tle at the behest of Mary 
the Angel of the Annunciation goes ivith it to guide and guard 
its journey down into the World's Garden. 

The little blindfold souls sing after the one departing: 

Fare thee well, O little brother! 

Little sister, fare thee well! 
Loving Mary keep and guide thee 

Back to Heaven's asphodel. 

Resuming their joyous dance: 

Where we wander, where we wander, 
Seeking hither, seeking yonder. 
Little sister, little brother, 
Seeking each his sweetest mother, — 
Loving Mary, guide us well ! 



Scene II 

A COTTAGE IN THE WORLD'S GARDEN. A porch ivith a 
rose-vined lattice opens upon a garden bright ivith flonuers — 
violets and pansies, forget-me-not and mignonette, pale lily-of-the- 
valley and shining marigold; there are trees in blossom and every- 
where profusion of beautiful roses. In the shelter of the lattice is 
seated a Lady, sewing with fine stitches. She hums to herself a 
drowsy melody. . . . With a merry laugh she drops her sewing 
and throws up her hand as if to catch some one vjho had covered 
her eyes frovi behind. 

''Guess who? ..." 

" 'Tis thee, little Lover, 'tis thee !" 



[164] 



She catches herself, in a self-amused <way: 

"Nay, nay; not yet. . . 

"But bye and bye . . . my little one!" 



And gazing afar, into the blue shining sky, a kind of glory, as from 
the Madonna's oivn halo, falls upon her. After a time she again 
takes up her setving, but ivith a new exaltation on her face. All 
the World is preternaturally quiet, save for a faint sound like the 
hum of celestial ivings departing. 

The Lady breaks into song: 

O he shall be a Captain 

And sail the Seven Seas 
Which are the Seven Ages 

That count life's mvsteries: 



A babe, a boy, a youth, a man, 

A father, elder, sage, — 
And aye a finer nobleman 

With each renewing age! 

But first of all a little Child — 

Ah, dearest unto me 
Will be the little Babe of mine 

That he must ever be . . . 
The kingly Babe, like Mary's Son, 

That he must ever be . . . 



[165] 



The Lady pauses, smiling thoughtfully; then resumes her singing: 

And she shall be a winsome maid, 

All laughter and bright dew, 
With wealth of golden love to give 

And a song that charmeth two. 

Fair flowers will blossom in her path, 

And all her ways be strown 
With petals of the loveliness 

By her sweet presence sown. 

But first of all a little child — 

A Babe that nestleth here 
To fill the spirit's empty place 

And be a mother's cheer. ... 

As the song ends, once more the Lady looks up into the blue sky, 
and once more the glory enhalloivs her face. Reverently she 
prays : 

O Mary, Jesu's Mother, 

Who dost in Heaven dwell. 
And givest gift of motherhood, — 

I pray thee, guide me well, 
That I may lead the little feet 
Through all the ways of men — 
The mild ways, 
The wild ways, — 
To Heaven and thee again. 



[166] 



MAYDE BETTY 

A little mayde came wandering bye — 

Hey, nonny, nonny ! — 
A wistful glance was in her eye, 
And on her lips a wistful sigh — 
Hey, nonny! 

"O little maid, an ye'll bide a while — 

Hey, nonny, nonny ! — 
"We'll gie ye a kiss for each sweet smile 
"And hold ye fast wi' our true love's wile"- 
Hey, nonny! 

The little mayde is sad nae mair, — 
Hey, nonny, nonny ! — 
" 'Twas all for this that I did fare, 
"That of your true love I might share, — 
"I'm Betty hight, an sae ye care" — 
Hey, nonny! 



[167] 



BEATA 

I 

Dear Heart, ever thou art mistress of that song 

Wherein, dumb-faltering, I strive to tell 
How love of thee is still the solace strong 
E'en for the hidden sorrovi^ that doth dwell 
Deep in the silent cham.bers of my soul, — 

Yea, while the years unroll 

Life's dark mortality, 
Enseated with remitless Memory 

Mute Sorrow must abide, 

Wounding and unsatisfied ... 

But, oh. Beloved, though through hurts that press 
In darkness o'er me, still thy dear caress 
Falleth to bless 
Like to a gentle-tuned harmony 
Descending from above. 
Till its clear music comforteth the pain, 
And sorrow is assuaged by that high strain 
Whose heavenly key is love. 



[168] 



II 



God's gift to man is just a little child, 
His image and his angel come to be 
The bright redemption of a world defiled, 
Bearing afresh the warm divinity 
Of hope celestial unto earth-bound men, — 

Sweet after-glow of Heaven 

That lovingly is given 
To heal our darkness and to ope again 

Unto our wondering eyes 

The bloom of Paradise . . . 

O Love of mine! in whose dear face is set 
The sign of suffering and the holy rood 
Of motherhood, 
Mid sorrow that we twain may ne'er forget 
We surely can uplift, 
Upon this day to giving sacredest, 
Hands richer filled for that we have been blest 
With God's most precious gift. 



[169] 



Ill 



I seem to see her image ever near 

Enhallowed with the morning, and her smile 
Bringing each day afresh its lovely cheer, 
And her soft fingers w^eaving dainty w^ile 
Our daily task to dedicate with grace, — 

All her radiant face 

Eager with love and lief 
With the quaint ardency of babyhood, 

As if she understood 

How dear her stay and brief! 

So was she given unto us, mine own. 
But till life's first shy syllables were said 
And o'er her head 
Had fallen such halo of beatitude 
As o'er the Christ-child lay 
In Bethlehem, lifting his manger rude 
Unto the splendour of a kingly throne 
That blessed Christmas day 



[170] 



IV 



Premonitive we named her Beatrice, 

Bringer of Blessedness, as if we knew 
From what high presence she should bear us bliss 
Delicate and tremulous as the dew 
Upon the tinted petals of the morn, — 

Like as she were born 

For some swift ministry 
Of joy, and lingering just to taste 

The dews of life, did haste 

To fair felicity . . . 

Beloved, she was the giver of such gift 
As not the jealous years nor death can part 
From th' enriched heart, 
For in what wastes soe'er our spirits drift, 
There still will be the light 
Which is our vision of her, shining far, 
And she shall be the clear ethereal star 
Illumining our night. 



[171] 



V 



Ah, Dear Heart mine! thou hast known mothers' joy, 

And known, in anguish, what is mothers' loss — 
Even as she who bore the holy boy 

O'er whose Nativity outstretched the Cross 
That was to bear salvation through her woe, — • 

For ever God hath sent 

His blessed innocent 
To be his sacrament, that men might know 

How unto these is given 

The shining keys of Heaven . . . 

O Love! by what dark justice and divine 
Her life was briefly linked with thine and mine 
We have no sign 
Save only that our hearts must ever be 
Drawn onward by mute ties 
Where she doth run mid golden minstrelsy — 
Our lives' sweet guerdon, given that we may see 
His gardened Paradise. 



[172] 



TALIUM EST ENIM REGNUM DEI 

I heard our babe that blessed is 

In Paradise above 
Breathe cooing baby syllables 

To tell me of her love, 
And, oh, her voice was like the voice 

Of Jesu's holy dove! 

She told me that the gliding years — 
Years unto us they seem — 

To little babes in Paradise 
Are like a fleeting dream, 

Or but the transient radiance 
Of some celestial beam 

That falls to kiss a baby's lips 

And waken there a smile 
And summon the contented sigh 

Sweet slumber doth beguile, — 
A year to babes in Paradise 

Is such a little while! 

They do not change as seasons pass. 
Nor with the winters gray; 

They do not feel the weariness 
And pains that waste away, — 

For in God's time a cycle is 
But as a summer's day. 



[173] 



And so, in bliss, our babe still is — 

She whispered, it to me 
In gentle cooing syllables -— 

Just as she used to be: 
E'en while she spake my sight was oped 

Once more her form to see! 

I saw her cheeks like petals blown. 

Her hair an aureole; 
I saw her true blue eyes, and they 

Looked straight into my soul. 
The while her arms reached lovingly 

My heartache to console: 

Oh, I must think the tears that welled 

Impulsive to mine eyes 
And veiled her from me did dissolve 

To shining mists that rise 
Where, still our blessed babe, she waits 

In God's calm Paradise! 



[174] 



SHE WHO HATH BLESSED ME 

She who hath blessed me, 
Her form alone I see 
As in a mystery 

Hovering nigh : 
Like as an holy shew 
Waft in pale golden glow 
There where the saintly go 

Down from the sky: 

Like as a damosel 
Chanting supernal spell 
Out of a book that well 

Art hath illumed : 
Whence her clear eyes do glance 
Lit with sweet radiance 
Caught where mid stars do dance 

Splendours implumed : 

Caught where God's Angelus 
Chimeth melodious, 
Chimeth high note to us 

Down from high spires: 
Where as they wing their flight 
Spirals of Seraphs bright, 
"Holy Night! Holy Night!" 
Praise Him in choirs: 



[175] 



Till their great antiphon 
Up through each starry zone 
Riseth to Heaven's throne 
Crystallme clear: 
"Wake to the joyous Morn! 
'Xo, where the Child is born! 
"Sound ye the silvern horn — 
"Gird ye with cheer! 

"Christ the Redeemer's Day 
"Lighteth with joyous ray, 
"Sheweth the Shining Way — 
"Peace unto men!" 
Hark! as they wing their flight 
Songs of the Seraphs bright, 
"Holy Night! Holy Night!" 
Soundeth again. 

Lo, out of Heaven's rift 
Dreamlike their glories drift 
Shewing each precious gift 

Borne from on high: 
Unto the eyes of me 
Shewing her blessedly 
As in a mystery 

Hovering nigh. 



[176] 



KING CHRISTMAS 

I 

**0 where is King Christmas, Mother, my Mother? 
O where is King Christmas, — come tell it to me, — 
Wi' his gauds and his joys and his frolic and laughter 
And the lightings of stars that brighten his ee? 
O where is King Christmas, sweet Mother, tell me." 

"In a faraway land, Laddie, my Laddie, 
In a faraway land King Christmas doth reign. 
And he holdeth high court in a Castle of Starshine 
And starry-eyed children do dance in his train, — 
In the faraway land where Christmas doth reign." 

"O I'll hie me a pilgrim, Mother, my Mother, 
And I'll haste me afar King Christmas to seek, 
And I'll dance in his train wi' the starry-eyed children, 
And I'll set me a kiss upon the King's cheek, — 
For I'll hie me a pilgrim King Christmas to seek." 

He has wandered him forth in the years that are youngest, 
He has wandered him forth in the innocent years 
Whose days are o'erbroidered with golden-rayed laughter 
And sown with the pearls that are childhood's light tears, — 
He has wandered him forth on his pilgrimage years. 

But the snows they be driven, and the frost it is chill, 
And the bright stars of Heaven shine distant and still. 
While the Castle of Christmas is aye o'er the hill. 

[177] 



II 

''Say, where is King Christmas, Sister, dear Sister? 
Say, where is King Christmas, — and we'll go for to see 
All the sparkle and joy of the Castle of Starshine 
And the high-shining treasures that hang on his Tree, — 
O we'll find us King Christmas his wonders to seel" 

"Nay, I know not the way thither, Brother, my Brother, 
Nay, I know not the way, but from over the hill — 
Do you harken the song of the blessedest children 
Where w^i' laughter and dancing they do the King's will. 
In the Castle of Starshine just over the hill?" 

"Yes, I harken the singing, Sister, my Sister, 
O I harken the singing where Christmas doth dwell — 
All the music and joy of the blessedest children 
And their pattering feet and the crystalline bell — 
O hasten us, hasten where Christmas doth dwell!" 

He has taken the hand o' his own little sister, 
He has taken her by her hand so small. 
And out they have gone to the Castle of Christmas, 
And the shadows lift and the shadows fall 
While he holds her fast by her hand so small. 

But the snows they be driven, and the frost it is chill. 
And the bright stars of Heaven shine distant and still, 
With the Castle of Christmas aye over the hill. 



[178] 



Ill 

"O where Is King Christmas, Mother, my Mother, 
O where is King Christmas — sweet Mother, tell me - 
For I've wandered awide through the years that are 

youngest, 
I've wandered awide wi' my own sister wee, 
But the Castle of Christmas we never might see." 

"Ah, woe is my heart, Laddie, my Laddie, 
Ah, woe is my heart for the innocent years 
That ye've wandered in search o' the Castle of Christmas 
And now ye have found it mine eyes blind wi' tears, 
For ye've come to the end o' the innocent years!" 

"And this is the Castle, Mother, my Mother! 
And mine w^as the starshine and mine was the tree! 
And the joy and the song o' the blessedest children 
Were all in the heart o' my own sister wee — 
And the high-shining treasures were ever wi' me! 

"O I've wandered awide. Mother, my Mother, 
And I've come to the end o' the pilgrimage years, 
And I stand at the gate of the Castle of Starshine, 
And I see the bright vision and I feel the hot tears. 
For I've passed from my childhood into man's years." 

But the snow^s they be driven and the frost it is chill, 
And the cot of the Christ Child lies over the hill. 
And the tree is the Rood that is holiest still. 

[179] 



CHRISTMAS HYMN 

There is an holy saint doth come 
Upon an holy day 

To touch the hearts of human folk, 

Of men that work, of wives that pray, 
And little children at their play— - 
In Jesu, Benedicite! 

Who lifteth eager saintly hands 

O'er them that would be blest. 

Bestowing God's sweet charity 

On each who cometh as a guest 
To hail the Son at Mary's breast — 
Salvator nobis natus est! 

Who greeteth with a wistful smile 
And eye turned tenderly, 

All them that make their pilgrimage 

'Neath stars that guide them blissfully 
Where they the Holy Babe may see — 
Maria, Mater Domini! 

Who leadeth to a troubled world 
The loyal Paraclete 

That openeth an hermitage 

Where all hurt souls may find retreat 
And joy and consolation sweet- — 
Beata est quae credidit! 



[180] 



Who sheweth once again to men 
What erst the shepherds saw, 

A vision out of Paradise 

Of shining angels choiring a 
Celestial-toned symphonia — 
O in excelsis gloria! 

Yea, 'tis an holy saint doth come 
Upon Christ's holy day, 

And greeteth with a wistful smile 

All them that work, all them that pray, 
And little children at their play — 
In Jesu, Benedicite! 



[181] 



